synopsis : you and Varka were inseparable growing up—the kind of friends who would walk into hell for each other without hesitation. But while Varka was away on an expedition, you went with a team of knights to investigate some ancient ruins only for it to go terribly wrong, with the knights returning with news of your death. Forced to mourn the loss of his closest friend (and crush), Varka eventually learned to live with the grief. That is, until years later in Nod Krai, he comes face to face with the impossible: you are alive.
The only problem? You now stand on different sides.
! slight spoilers for nod krai's archon quest
contains : female reader, angst no comfort (or at least, a bittersweet ending?), TW!! mentions of violence/gore, torture/psychological trauma, manipulation, brainwashing, medical experimentation, implied su1cide and body harm, grief
notes : yipee its finally out !! this has been sitting in my drafts for months LOL. honestly i was contemplating between making this a one shot or a mini series bcs of the word count but the paragraph limit made the decision for me. some parts may seemed a little rush, especially the ending but just know i tried..
this is gg to be a long one but more Yearning (capital Y for yearning) from varka soooo 🤷♀️
don't worry guys i already wrote everything out so i'll push them out as fast as i can !!
Intended for an adult audience. Cw: mature themes. Wc: 1-1.3k words each.
RESPECTFUL version.
A/N: I'm back from the dead, and I present unto thee a very long post.
Dottore
1k words
Would it disturb you to know that your Lord Dottore derives pleasure from watching you sleep?
The full moon has risen over Teyvat, calling upon all creatures to descend into slumber, but monsters rarely heed the call of the divine. Instead, the Doctor roams the halls of the Special Territory Research Institute looking for prey. His rats have fallen asleep in their cages, his monitors have been turned off, and his subordinates have returned to rest in their rooms. He walks alone with intentions unknown, the dripping of rainwater seeping through cracks in the metal ceiling harmonising with the echoes of his footsteps. He moves in one direction, determined. Like how the ocean’s tide reaches for the moon each night, it is the rainwater that leads the Heretic of The False Moon to your door where water pools outside the threshold. You reel him in to drown in your sea of dreams with the rhythmic rise of your chest and the quiet snores that escape your chapped lips he so badly wishes to kiss. You do all to entrance him by doing nothing at all. So, prey he has found in you.
To leave your door unlocked thinking the Fatui, including you, are the only ones to fear in this world was a foolish mistake.
Because sometimes, the call comes from within the house.
You convince yourself it is nothing, just your imagination playing deceptive games when the truth has yet to be revealed. The feeling of being watched must come from the Fatui’s security measures planted in the institute’s every corner. The strange bruises littering your arms you attribute to combat training. The wet footsteps leading away from your bedroom door are but the traces of a drunken Fatuus who must have mistaken your room for theirs in the darkness of the hall. There is a logical explanation for everything!
Your dismissal is exactly what Dottore had hypothesised would happen before conducting his experiment, for what is there to expect but nothing at all? It is easier to quietly deny than it is to convince others of your inexplicable suspicions without evidence.
However, evidence is clearly there for those with the eyes to see it. One morning, Dottore catches you trudging absentmindedly about the institute. Your tired eyes stare ahead into the hall as though you are transfixed by the trail of rainwater leading down the corridor of this metal maze of horrors. Each puddle you step in reflects different distorted images of you that do not mirror your current state, and as you proceed through the hall towards the laboratory where you assist your Lord with his research, the puddles develop a reddish hue as if reflecting something from above, but nothing on your person could be the cause of this. Nevertheless, it would seem to a colleague passing by that you are just fatigued. In truth, you are not fully conscious of your state.
That is why you do not notice your Lord fall into step with you, his heavy footsteps sounding like a distant echo in your mind, one that is almost familiar though you cannot figure out why. After admiring your lack of awareness and the shocked looks of some passing soldiers who bow in respect to demonstrate how unlike they are to you, Dottore inquires, with feigned obliviousness, about your sluggish attitude, to which you greet him with a salute a second too long after realising who asks. Nothing, my Lord, you explain, forgive me. He flashes a smile that showcases his sharpened teeth. What you do not see are the wide eyes of a madman beneath his mask.
And even if you had seen his full expression, nothing could allow you to process the logical explanation behind it when your mind is constantly distracted by the horrible images that come flooding while you sleep when the moon is at its zenith.
Monsters, murder, madness. Your body is unable to move nor scream. Pain surges through your veins where blood is pumped hastily by a heart that is ready to fail at any moment. The sky has been shred to pieces, planets and stars come falling from the firmament beyond, crushing the world as the blood of all life drips from the red moon above. Each image is vivid, palpable. It is as though the Abyss has made home in your subconscious and has seeped into your dreams like the Wild Hunt does through faults and fissures in the northern isles.
But the Abyss is not to blame for your circumstances. Just as the ocean is a reflection of the sky, so, too, is the Abyss to the horrors which roam above ground.
The horrors which roam flooded halls in search of prey as night falls.
You could awake abruptly in sweat, panting and heaving, and meet the darkness that consumes your room but your mind would not forget what it has seen. That is why you never process the cold metal against your forehead, the glow of something red in your peripheral vision, the soft whirring of a lab machine nearby, nor the sting of the syringe swiftly injected into your inner elbow before you fall back to sleep at the behest of the undivine.
You only ever hear the dripping of rainwater that has begun to flood into your room uninvited because it senses the presence of the moon nearby.
“In the realm of dreams, logic is unable to constrict possibility. It is thus the perfect laboratory to test how just a fragment of my fabricated divinity can reconstruct the mind’s understanding of what is and what can be.” The Doctor whispers while he lightly pushes the hair from your face as you shift in your sleep. He has knelt down on one knee beside your bed. His face is close to yours, so close, he can feel your warm breath hit his face, and he smiles.
The monitor nearby signals an almost complete copy and transferral of data from the moon marrow hooked to your head with cords. “You make an excellent test subject with how obedient you are. Tampering with the subconscious requires the absolute obliviousness of the conscious mind. And for this reason,” Dottore pauses when you whimper in your sleep, hushing you. “I must keep this a secret.”
You will surely safeguard his secret whether or not you ever realise the truth, lest you meet a terrible fate and your blood become that which reflects the moon, that which makes the Heretic’s moon red.
Wanderer/Scaramouche
1.1k words
To witness you cry both hurts and excites the aimless Wanderer whose moral compass has been tampered with by turbulent winds. He cannot resist the winds that lead him to sin, though it should be the winds who answer to him. He is a puppet to his own desires, a puppet with strings that have been caught tightly around your fingers, cutting deep enough into your skin to scar.
He understands his actions are wrong. The way he makes you second-guess yourself, instilling doubt and fear where neither have reason to be, is wrong. The way he mocks your mannerisms, your ideas, your voice is wrong. The way his chest clenches as if he has a heart to race at the sight of you crying is wrong. Angels of Virtue and Vice sit upon his shoulders, recording his deeds for when the heavens question his life choices, but what good does the threat of punishment in the afterlife do to the immortal who has lived lives of both evil and now, apparently, good?
The Wanderer does not know; he only feels, and that is what unsettles him most.
He begins with small, frustrating quips. Where anger is present, sadness often follows. He regularly approaches you at the Akademiya where you work on your history thesis for your upcoming defense. This document is your ticket to graduating with honours, to nation-wide recognition like all the scholars before you, but your defense is closer than you think. It looms over your shoulder, dissecting your words with unwarranted scrutiny, and that which has witnessed history has much to say about the credibility of the historical evidence cited on the paper before you. He is especially critical of your research topic: the centuries-long vacancy of the Harbingers’ sixth seat.
At first, you consider his comments as necessary advice, but furrowed brows, according to the Wanderer, are much prettier paired with a tear-stained face; he thus increases the dosage of poison lacing his words.
What he foolishly does not expect is defiance against him. He is not a sage against whom you shall defend your hard work. He is—
Who are you? Leave me alone, you say as you shut your binder so that he may no longer see your work.
Scaramouche, The Balladeer, Shouki no Kami, Kunikuzushi, Kabukimono. The names cross his mind like quiet whispers stifled by wind. He only tsks in response.
It stings the first time you retaliate. Words of rebuttal leave your pretty lips more coherently than any argument you have written. Resistance was a rarity amongst Fatui subordinates whose lives were on the line. There is no act of treason when you insult him, however; there is only courage in the face of a bully. Your eyes reflect the anger he has planted within your soul. You spew hateful words as suffocating tension builds in the atmosphere, though it is only you who finds it difficult to breathe, for the puppet does not require air. Still, how frustrating it must be to the man who had, for centuries, persecuted anyone who defied Scaramouche.
Yet your anger equally invigorates the Wanderer.
One must remember that he is a hollow vessel which has been promised an eternity to search for his purpose. Born from a branch once connected to Irminsul, he is fundamentally an appendage of something greater than himself though he serves little purpose on his own. So, it is no wonder he latches onto whatever will make him feel alive. That is how the fiercest winds work. The very winds that kiss the cheek on a hot summer’s day are present in the heaviest sandstorms that blind the eyes once wind has bound to the desert’s grain, the coldest blizzards that freeze the heart when frost intertwines with frigid air, and the hurricanes that drown the soul after the sea has claimed the sky for itself. The wind needs only one partner to cause disorder.
And he has found a partner in you. You challenge him, the man you see crossing out main points in your draft as you reach to grab your work back, as well as him, the man whom you have researched about without knowing of his existence at all.
The man whom you defend against himself.
You give the Wanderer reason to confront past and present. A shame you refuse him, but a leech does not seek permission to drain its victim for sustenance.
The Wanderer clings to you, the greater one in this strange duo of good and evil. He stalks you in the halls of the Akademiya. Belligerent and contentious, he convinces you of being lesser through never-ending criticism and insults. You try to run but the smoke from the fire he has set to the air has already settled into your lungs. Each word of his is a poison that kills you slowly, but does he realise he, too, drinks from the same vial? Speaking ill words not only unleashes sickness upon you but also unto himself. His tongue has already begun to rot from vulgarity.
He understands this is wrong; it only feels right. Good and evil quarrel inside the Wanderer’s mind while he feels the weight of his sins replace the burden of Scaramouche’s which he cannot escape because his immortality is itself eternal damnation. Death is but a dream.
He is left utterly sickened by himself.
Thankfully, every sickness has a remedy, if not a cure. Your tears, like alcohol to a cut, burn and cleanse the wounds of his psyche as you beg him to release you from his psychological hold. All he hears, however, is a melody that is your cries. Like the strumming of a lyre, each sniffle, each whimper, momentarily releases the tension from the regret he holds against himself for his past. He almost forgets who he is when he sees you gasp for your breath as tears scrape against your soft skin. Is this the freedom of the wind which was promised to him upon receiving his Vision?
Scaramouche does not exist, but the branch of Irminsul which became him can never be erased without extirpating the Wanderer.
And how could he do that when he is your thesis and you—
You’re evil, you say as you rip your thesis from his grip.
—are his defence?
“What is wrong with you?” You muffle your sobs with your sleeve so no one else in the House of Daena can hear you.
“Everything,” he whispers as he steps forward while you back into a wall behind a bookshelf. “Can’t you see? Or is that something you struggle with, too?”
“What do you want from me? Why are you like this?” You clutch your thesis to your chest where your heart resides, and in the chaos of his mind, he can imagine feeling your heart beat against his own cavernous chest.
“Don’t—” he hesitantly wipes a tear from your cheek as you flinch. “Don’t cry anymore.”
Honesty has never been a virtue recorded on his behalf. Secrecy, however, shall be written a thousand times over. Punishment shall consequently be exacted upon him by the heavens in the name of the good he pretends to be.
Alhaitham
1.3k words
There are countless words in the language of Teyvat, but Alhaitham is adamant that none can describe how enigmatic you are. And of all the languages that have died with civilizations lost to time, there are not enough words to describe what he feels for you. Nevertheless, he has become enamoured with the way you think, so he tries to understand you in the only way he thinks is possible: through the language of your mind.
In his hands is your journal of confessions, a treasure hoard of secrets that, unlike any novel he has read, covers all genres. A bad day transcribed into a journal entry that continues for numerous pages, a lovely conversation with a friend written down for memories, or a tense disagreement with a certain colleague recorded to unload frustration; these are cathartic snippets of your mind made easy to digest, though this journal was meant only to be seen by your desk drawer which can be locked with a special key. That key, however, is currently being held hostage within Alhaitham’s pockets, jingling next to his roommate’s. Like a shiny apple suspended upon the branch of a forbidden tree, the sight of your key left forgotten on your desk, which he could see from his office across the hall as you left for your lunch break, enticed him too much to ignore.
As long as it remains in his possession, so shall the journal, the key to unlocking the recesses of your mind where he may ensconce himself like a parasite in a metaphysical sense.
To Alhaitham, you are a puzzle, a scholar whose intelligence rivals anyone he has ever known. He truly is a feeble scholar in your presence, for your published works challenge him unlike deciphering any ancient rune. He has studied all of history’s words transcribed on papyrus, wood, and stone, and none share the same soulful depth and expression as does your writing. They are works of art deserving the attention of artists all over Teyvat because a mind like yours is art itself. And like ancient runes waiting to be translated, he only wishes to comprehend how you think.
To fulfill that wish, he must study.
Repeated exposure to the content is necessary. When you leave work, Alhaitham hides in your office while he interprets every word printed by your hand. His feet are propped up on your desk as he leans back into your chair, relishing in the comfort of the cushion despite the fact his office chair is of the same quality. The blinds covering the window on your locked door are pulled close to keep secret his surreptitious activities from other colleagues. This is his sanctuary.
Analysing the structure and language is equally important. Unlike your academic work, your journal is unrefined. Sentences jump from one thought to another feeling. While your voice is casual, there is subtext attached to every word he underlines. Names of colleagues and friends manifest repeatedly, but it is only his name he cares for.
Alhaitham is so annoying, so terribly tiresome, you wrote in an entry, but all Alhaitham can do is blush at your mention of his name. I can’t work with him. He never listens. Always wearing those gaudy headphones! Sometimes I wonder, though, if he pretends to not hear me because he doesn’t like me—
You complain of his inability to hold a conversation, and he finds himself arguing with the paper. With your pen, he writes rebuttals in the margins and slots ink between the lines of your writing as if to interrupt your flow of thought. Why endure boring work-place small talk required of superficial, collegial etiquette when he can, with your journal, plunge into the depths of your mind which are informed by the feelings in your soul? Besides, by doing so, he will not have to be so annoying, so terribly tiresome.
It does not unnerve him that you think this way, that must be why he spends so much time searching for other mentions of his name. His roommate seldom inquires why he seems distracted when he comes home, but Alhaitham does not hear because his mind is busy trying to comprehend why you had been frustrated by his recommendation to post-pone a meeting between scribes, why you had taken offence to his minute re-organisation of documents for a shared project, and why you had taken it to heart when he only hummed to say hello when you had greeted him—
How you think deeply unnerves him, but Alhaitham does not voice his opinions so easily aloud. Writing, nonetheless, allows him to articulate his thoughts.
He writes quickly as his mind races with thoughts that try to make sense of you. What an achievement it is on your part to befuddle the man who avoids all distractions in order to stay focused! Neat printing muddles into scribbles resembling damaged hieroglyphs as his sentences squish against each other along margins no less than two centimeters wide. Lines and arrows connecting ideas are the threads meant to weave his thoughts together into a blanket that threatens to cover and suffocate your mind spilled out in written confession. These are the pages of a madman.
And when he cannot comprehend, what then? One should ask: what does a parasite do to its host once it assumes control?
It attempts to change how it thinks.
Negative adjectives are wiped clean with white ink and re-written. Alhaitham is so understanding, so genuinely genial. Mentions of others whom you praise are replaced with his name written with careful precision to replicate your handwriting. Clearly, his actions are evidence that it is his own mind he wishes to fool. Reality made fiction for his sanity’s sake.
The weight of his additions makes the journal cumbersome to hold as if he has woven parts of his soul into it. Two minds in chaos. Though paper bound by glue is not sufficient to carry such weight. It thus follows that chaos leaks from pages of semi-fiction to reality at the hands of the madman whose soul exists between real and imaginary.
Right in front of you, at work, at meetings, at the tavern, at the bazaar, Alhaitham carries your journal masked in a blank paper cover. You assume he is innocently journaling about things unimportant to you, or that he is organising his thoughts just as any good scribe would do. The thought of him writing in your missing journal is completely unreasonable, downright absurd!
That is how the madman believes you, the sane, should think.
Alhaitham is obsessed with your idea of him as he is obsessed with the idea of you, and he shall control what he can through edits of your journal as though he is changing history.
It seems what truly makes a person mad is the curiosity of understanding things that were never meant to be known.
“What has you so invested that you won’t help with our upcoming project?” You try to peek over the desk to see what he is reading after barging into his office, but he tilts the top of the book toward his face, covering the lower half of his expression where his smirk hides.
Alhaitham sinks into his chair. “Since when have you ever wanted to work with me?”
Confused, you furrow your brows before hesitatingly saying, “Put your novel down. The characters aren’t going anywhere.” You turn to leave.
“You sure?”
You stop abruptly at the door and grumble. “If you won’t help with work, then…maybe you can help with something else. It’s the least you can do when you don’t do anything. I’ve recently lost a key and—hey, are you listening?”
Alhaitham flips through the pages of this journal of his and yours which is written proof of your minds bound together in prose, but he sees no reason for you to understand him through the language of his mind.
He then slides the journal into his pocket with your key. “So, what is it you’re missing?”
One must remember: a parasite does not rule alongside its host.
Kaeya
1k words
The indirect kiss is the most honourable of dishonourable deeds, Kaeya thinks, for it does no true harm. What cannot harm cannot be bad, right? A knight cannot harm and must be honourable in everything he does; so therefore, a knight can only choose to do good and adiaphorous deeds. Honour is the code of law by which all Knights of Favonius follow to reduce harm and garner respect from the people so that Mondstadt will continue to flourish in peace. This is what they had promised Barbatos on the day of knighthood to fulfil and maintain, and to break such a promise would be to dishonour their god and thus do harm. It follows that the profession of a knight will come with sacrifices where honour and personal desire cannot overlap if goodness will be infringed upon.
But if the honour demonstrated by the knight is ultimately for the people, where is the harm in being just a little dishonourable if no one is to notice?
Angel’s Share is crowded with knights, civilians, and bards on this hot night, but despite all the singing and dancing that would normally captivate Kaeya, he is enchanted by only you. You do not dance with drunken tease nor sing lines in slurred speech; instead, you sit upon your chair across from him, chugging a large glass of wine the Grand Master had dared you to drink whilst your fellow knights cheered you on.
Kaeya cannot ignore the wine dribbling down your chin and splattering onto your armour like blood spilled in battle. Rather, he would liken the sight to paint that drips from the canvas on which has been created a masterpiece, one worth being stolen in a grand heist to keep for oneself to admire alone. But he cannot take so easily. That would be most dishonourable. Besides, he feels the eyes of his brother nearby who knows he is up to no good. He watches him like a hawk from behind the bar, as he should be for Kaeya is indeed teetering on the line between good and bad.
The knight knows he must be discrete. His honour is on the line; that is what makes this all so exhilarating.
You set the glass down, a little wine still left inside while red stains your plush lips, before you hastily arise from your seat and, with some of your fellow knights, head to the center of the tavern which has been made a dance floor. It is now a duel between the drunk hollering of restless knights and the thin-stringed harps of bards with weary impatience.
A window of opportunity; this is the moment to strike swiftly like a gust of wind that comes and goes before one can take a complete breath.
Kaeya’s gloved fingers inch towards the glass across the table while his good eye locks onto your dancing form. The way you stumble around with two left feet, the way you lean onto another knight to keep your balance, and the way you laugh at his ill-attempted jokes does all to irk the dishonourable knight who, burdened by envy, unintentionally chills the wine with his Vision upon grasping your glass which fits so naturally with his character. No one would ever take a second look at Kaeya drinking wine.
In truth, drinking wine is befitting of all in the nation. Wine is the blood of Mondstadt, the very drink of Barbatos. It connects all those who believe themselves to be children of the free winds to the Anemo god.
Kaeya, however, does not seek a connection with his Lord, but rather, with a paladin whose honour and respect outweighs his own.
So, he takes a sip from your glass. The wine is tart against his tongue, but your saliva that coats the rim is as sweet as the fresh grapes that grow from the vineyard of his old home. This wine—your blood—quenches his thirst unlike any other, so much so he could almost consider abstaining from all liquor until his final breath if he were told none would taste as good as your indirect kiss. Kaeya takes it as a sign that he has done the right thing; that if Barbatos were to have seen him commit such a disrespectful and dishonourable act, he would pardon his sin, for you and him are bound in a way inexplicable to the non-believer.
But the ritual is not yet complete. Kaeya pushes the glass towards your seat when you come staggering back. You plomp down onto your seat and mindlessly take a swig of your glass, oblivious to what taints the rim and liquor. Your drink is cold unlike how it was before abandoning your post, but this is not a detail you will remember in the morning. Just how it should be. Like frost that nips at numbed skin, one is unaware of how one’s fingers have begun to rot until it is too late. In your case, however, you shall never know of the frost that has bitten you. He is quick and discrete, like a snowflake that melts upon hitting the skin, leaving one to think it was a drop of rain instead. Deceiving.
Upon noticing him across the table, you smile and wave giddily as you hiccup. Kaeya smiles back with a warmth that could melt your heart.
Harmlessly dishonourable is the deed no one notices; or so, that is what Kaeya thinks.
“I should report your reprehensible misbehaviour to Grand Master Varka. If not him, then surely Jean will imprison you for your wrongdoing.” With a cloth, Diluc wipes the glass that you had left on the table. The tavern has gone quiet with the retreat of knights after the bards finished their performances. There remains only the two brothers and a few passed-out drunkards.
“Who’s going to believe what no one has seen?” Kaeya crosses his legs after taking a seat by the bar which he leans an arm on.
“Oh? I’m no one?” his brother deadpans. “So it wouldn’t hurt if no one said anything?”
“You’re no fun, Diluc.” Kaeya smirks. “Where's the bad in having a little fun?”
“Knights of Favonius.” Diluc huffs.
Kaeya ignores him. Although his brother is no longer a knight, it does no good to Diluc to lower the people’s respect for those who help protect Mondstadt, his home, especially when he has only recently begun to heal from the Ordo’s past undeniable misdeeds.
And so, Kaeya’s honour remains, sealed secret by kiss.
Varka
1.3k words
Some say that those who repeatedly cheat Death are protected by divine forces for their virtuous deeds. The Knight of Boreas bears scars inflicted by all beasts, his skin littered in slashes, scratches, and scores made by the iron and claws of enemies human and celestial. Yet he stands tall and strong like the rigid, unshakeable mountain of Dragonspine. He is like a god in human form with winds beneath his feet to lighten his steps as he marches towards glory. Blessed be the angels who look out for him.
Surely, such angels include you.
The white gauze wrapped around your soft hands are woven from the clouds upon which are built the heavens you have descended from. Your touch is as light as the morning dew weightlessly sitting atop mint leaves that speckle the green grounds of his Mondstadt. And your voice? Oh, how he loves the voice that reminds him to hold his breath, that the saline may sting, that he may look away momentarily as you heal him with holy water and a prayer, for it is a melody reminiscent of the hymns that escape the cathedral doors where devotees mispronounce your name for Barbatos’.
If you were to ask what was on his mind, you might be able to make him confess, reveal all that he keeps secret from this world and its sinners and saints who shall admit their deeds to their gods after departure; but you have no reason to question a hurt man seeking a healer.
So, he will keep from you the fact that he is not actually injured at all.
Through years of battle, Varka has built a tough exterior. Thick skin grows where his palms and fingers touch his claymores as well as where heavy armour sits on his body. He is the shield of Mondstadt. However, that wall of iron falls apart whenever he sees you walking around the knights’ headquarters, your Favonius nurse’s uniform loose and thin against your body to accommodate the heat of the approaching summer. The wind blows the fabric tight against your figure, and he praises Barbatos in a dirty curse that leaves his lips. How disgraceful.
His stoic stance falters and he feigns hurt, groaning out in pain as he limps towards you. Please, he begs, I think my wounds will need some more tending to. It has been months since his return to Mondstadt. He lies through wine-stained teeth.
The first time you healed him after battle, your voice wavered full of worry; your intonation resonated with his slow-beating heart, resurrecting him from his unconscious state. You kept him alive in that moment, not the Archons who bless and take Life from all living beings.
The blessing of Life can so easily be taken for granted, and those who have had the privilege of truly living rarely question the idea of seeing the sun set for the last time. Although to Varka, the thought of Death has always lingered in his mind like the pungent smell of smoke after hellfire has scorched the battlefield where his allies lay dead. He has always stood alone, barely living, with a soul neither dead nor alive. His life would play out before his eyes. Every selfish and selfless act. I could have done better, I could have been better, he thinks. When Death surrounds him and Life suffocates him, it is difficult to truly live in the present. He is stuck in a perpetual cycle of what has happened and what shall become with all the time he has. It is therefore no wonder he takes for granted that which is abundant to him: Life.
So, contrary to what may be inferred, your healing hands, which kept him alive, also brought him the closest he could be to Death; that is, to experiencing Life in his own understanding. You made Death and thus Life understandable to the one whom Death evades. He knew then that wanted you all to himself, as shamefully as possible. Though you are not only his to heal. Your duty comes to Mondstadt first.
Now, as you bandage his bare torso in the low-lit infirmary of the knights’ barracks, he wonders how your hands have stitched the wounds of his soldiers, too; how you have wiped with a cloth the sweat upon the brows of other knights, your chest so unintentionally close to their faces as they sat upon the very cot he sits on now; and how you have helped others stand who are truly injured unlike himself, hugging them close to your form.
And as you bend down and roll up the cuffs of his pants to check the healing progress of injuries you had bandaged upon his return home, he wonders whose wounds you have kissed better. Unashamedly, he thinks: who else have you brought back to life?
A light scowl tugs at his features.
Is something wrong, sir? you ask.
Nothing at all, he lies, for Varka has never truly been very religious.
That is why the thought of offending Barbatos for you does not disturb him as it would you, someone saintly. Perhaps he should disassemble the millennium-old Ordo, an organisation built in honour of the Anemo god, to keep other knights away from you. Or, if offending Barbatos would risk offending you, Varka could venture out in search of the greatest beast who shall inflict the greatest harm upon himself which would require only your attention and medical expertise. The search for a worthy opponent would be lengthy but the outcome would occupy your time for an equally long while. If he truly has the favour of the gods, he will always live to see the next day.
But will he be living to his greatest potential through such extremes in favour of selfish desires? Is this the reason why the gods keep him alive?
A lock of hair falls in front of your face, and he resists with all his might the urge to push it back, especially when you are kneeling before him as though you, a saint, wish to be knighted by the hand of a selfish liar—a sinner. Reality is a painful truth, and there is very little that can console him.
Though what is real does not have to be painful. If he steps outside his mind, he can make the present worthwhile. He could truly live and not just be alive in search of an impossible death through you. It suddenly dawns upon the knight then: why think of tomorrow when today is promised and I have you all to myself at this very moment?
Although Mondstadt’s divinely-guarded leader can secretly fantasize about making you his personal nurse or declaring you an angel deserving worship, he is better off being someone to you now rather than you be something to him if he ever wishes to be worthy of a saint. He must change and live in his present.
“What would Mondstadt do without such a knowledgeable nurse?” Varka pretends to wince when you gently wrap his arm with a bandage. “I wouldn’t know what to do.”
“What would Mondstadt do without its leader?” You suddenly tighten the bandage, catching him off guard. His reaction is nevertheless delayed. You raise your brows and smile with a knowing look he ignores. “You have to be more careful for Mondstadt’s sake.”
“You know best.” He laughs and lifts a pinky. “For Mondstadt.”
The sun will rise as it does each day, and he will be there to see it because you give him Life. You have made it clear what he must live and die fighting for.
You interlock your pinky with his.
And it is not Mondstadt. It is instead you; Life.
A white lie is surely the first step to becoming an honest, respectful person worthy of you.
A/N: I wrote so much more than I had intended. I literally wrote three wildly different drafts each for Alhaitham, Wanderer, and Varka. My fingers hurt from typing. I truly hope you guys enjoyed reading! Anyways, I want to add that Kaeya and Varka can arguably be respectful men, but they are not at Diluc and Flins’ level of respectful, c’mon. They’re honourable drunks. I see the disrespectful potential in our Knights of Favonius.
Disclaimer: yandere fanfiction is not meant to be taken seriously, nor is it a portrayal of love/romance.
sum: anyone would be happy to be married to Varka, so why aren't you?
wc: 740
warnings: yandere content, it's on the subtle side, fem!reader, implied sex, implied dubcon, no spoilers
a/n: varka may be big and loud in his personality and appearance but i subscribe to subtle yandere varka who'll make you feel crazy
likes & rbs appreciated!
masterlist
Everyone congratulated you when Varka announced his intention to wed you. People you've never met before, gushing and patting your shoulders as if you were all old friends, saying how lucky you were to be the apple of his eye, that Barbatos himself had blessed you with the most capable man in Mondstadt.
You nodded and smiled at the time, thanked them for their wishes, and tried to walk home like there wasn't the a pit starting to form in the bottom of your stomach.
When Varka formally proposed to you, in front of the statue of the Anemo Archon, it was a grand spectacle, to say the least. A crowd of no less than a third of the city's population had turned up to watch the Grandmaster propose, and for a reason to have a feast.
In front of so many watchful eyes, you smiled and said yes, even when the word felt bitter and tasted like poison on your tongue.
The wedding is an extravagant affair, the whole city decked out in so many shades of white it was blinding in the sun. Although the actual wedding would take place in the cathedral, it was like everyone in Mondstadt had been invited, prancing around in their nicest clothing and talking animatedly to each other, more excited than you were about your own wedding.
The cathedral itself was quiet, different from the hustle and bustle of outside. Inside, there was only a few of Varka's closest friends to bear witness to this union.
Varka himself is dressed in a suit befitting the occasion, a big smile carved on his face, watching as you silently walked down the aisle. When you finally make it to him, he didn't hesitate to trap your hands in his, his grip slightly too strong and wholly uncomfortable.
You didn't choose this dress; you don't even like it. It's far too long, trailing behind like the remnants of a past that just won't go away. The gems sewed on the fabric are far too many and far too obnoxious, and the fabric of your gloves feel too rough against your skin. The heels are too high, the soles stiff and uncomfortable, and you feel like you could stumble and fall at any moment. Your hairdo hurts. Your head hurts.
Then, why do you continue?
It's not like Varka has ever forced you into anything. It's not like he's ever made you do something you didn't want to do. Varka's always been a kind and understanding man, easygoing and friendly. Everyone in Mondstadt holds some respect for him, if not admiration, even you.
So he wouldn't be upset if you said no, right?
The priest is looking at you with expectant eyes. Varka is looking at you with a grin. From the corner of your eyes, you can see Jean, Razor, and Barbara, and they're all staring at you. The bard named Venti is watching, too. Is there anyone you know in here?
Time ticks on, and so does your hesitance. The air is eerily still, the cathedral silent. Sunlight streams through the glass, bright, even though you feel anything but. A squeeze from Varka's hand brings you back to life.
"Yes," you breathe out, the word echoing, a reminder that you chose this. "I do."
Everything is a blur afterwards. You smile and laugh and chat when you have to, but you feel so empty inside, like you just sealed your fate. But didn't you want this?
You didn't tell him you didn't want to marry him. You didn't reject his proposal. You didn't say no when you had the opportunity to. You said, yes, I do.
In your shared home, Varka is nothing short of wolfish. He kisses you, all teeth and reeking of desire, and his presence swallows you whole. He marks you from your neck to your thighs, blooming bruises you're sure people will be teasing you about for days to come. His tongue licks wet stripes on your skin, leaving heat in their wake, yet you feel so, so cold.
Tonight, Varka brands you as his, for the rest of your life, and you hope you're imagining it when you hear him say that he can't wait to have a family with you.
What a joyous day in Mondstadt it must be, you think quietly, a tightness forming in your belly. Everyone in Mondstadt seems to be happy, everyone except me.
──── 𝐬𝐮𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐲! ˊˎ
⊹₊ masterlist / rules
꒰ characters: Alhaitham, Ayato, Diluc, Ningguang, Pantalone, Wriothesley ꒱
꒰ c.w: MDNI, NSFW content, smut, wlm, wlw, dom/sub dynamics, sugardaddy/sugarmommy! charcters, m. & f.receiving oral, semi-public sex, rough sex, creampie, breeeding kink, sixty-nine, fingering, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, vibrator, light degradation, collar and leash꒱
ᯓ✩ 𝒑.𝒔: if this does well then I'll make a part 2 with Childe, Chiori, Neuvillette, Morax and Yae Miko. And if you think one of these is inspired by an Azeru audio then you'd be 1000% right
⋆ :₊ Alhaitham is the kind of sugar daddy who gives you a precise weekly allowance and will silently expect his money to show on you when you meet up. It fills him with a certain pride and dominance to see that you've been pampered on his money. He'll never say this outright though and will expect you to pick up on it if you want to see an increase in your allowance.
⋆ :₊ He's also not above teasing you and holding your arrangement over your head. You had planned to spend the day at the market with your friend? Wearing shoes he paid for? On the back of the allowance he gives you? No, darling, you're going to be joining him for lunch in the grand sage's office, he misses your pretty face when he's working~
The scent of bitter coffee and sex mingle in the air as you kneel between Alhaitham's thighs, your lips wrapped around his girthy cock as you diligently bob your head, tongue lapping against his heated skin. He has one gloved hand set atop your head while the other holds his book open upon the armrest of his seat.
You look up at him through your lashes, determined to get a reaction out of him that's more than just his fingers pressing a little more firmly into your hair or the spine of his book. He likes to see you work for things, to earn them, even his own reactions and vulnerabilities in these risky times. Given the hour, it's unlikely that anyone would dare interrupt the acting grand sage's lunch hour but it's still not impossible.
Both of your hands run up his thighs sensually, one stopping just shy of the apex while the other reaches to palm and fondle his balls while you lap up the length of his cock, rolling your tongue against the tip and focusing intently on swiping over the slit of it. Your dress has been pushed down to reveal your tits to him for when he wishes to actually pry his gaze from his book, nipples pert with arousal. Meanwhile, Alhaitham's clothes are practically unmoved at all, excluding how you've unzipped his pants just enough to take out his heavy cock and balls.
Determined, you take more of his into your mouth until he can feel the squeeze of your throat, some drool beginning to slip from the corners of your mouth. You decide to get a bit noisier with it too, uncaring for your current setting. If feel alone won't get a reaction out of him and he persistently refuses to look at you, you'll use sound too in order to finally get him to let loose and express how much he loves having you on your knees like this.
The combination of having you deepthroat him with your lewd noises draws a hiss from his teeth and his hand tangles in your hair and his eyes, a bright turquoise and terracotta, finally – finally – fix on you.
"Now we're getting somewhere..." He groans. He does nothing to guide or spur your pace, simply using his hand atop your head to feel how much you have to move to drag your lips all the way up and down his impressive length. "Keep that up and you'll make me cum~" His tone is practically a rumbling purr as he spreads his legs a little further apart, leaning back more in his chair to make you the complete centre of attention.
His guessing games may be frustrating at times but it's beyond satisfying when he shows you that you've finally figured out whatever it was he was expecting of you, the emotion spurring you on with eager enthusiasm. And he knows this all too well when your hard work pays off and he's cumming down your throat, watching as you do your utmost to swallow it all before it can spill from the corners of your mouth.
⋆ :₊ Kamisato Ayato has enough money to spoil you absolutely rotten. Part of the agreement is that you don't work at all – you're a full-time sugar baby now and your days should be spent in luxury, pampering yourself for him. It feels him with a deep sense of pride to know that he has enough money to completely provide a lavish lifestyle for you while not even making a dent in his fortune.
⋆ :₊ The Yashiro Commissioner finds appearances very important, given his status, and so he just adores seeing you all dolled up in lavish fashion – especially traditional clothing like kimonos. He's not shy about your partnership either: as far as Inazuma is aware, you're his exclusive lady companion, a proper courtship taking place between you where he presents you with all sorts of exquisite gifts and takes you around like a true gentleman with you on his arm at festivals, never an improper display of affection between you in public. Once you retire to the privacy of his estate, however...
Your silk kimono is in disarray, obi belt untied beneath you, layers of your skirts pulled apart to expose you for him, collar tugged far away enough from your breasts that they continue to peek out as Ayato thrusts relentlessly into the saccharine heat between your thighs. You're laid on your side, hands clutching at the linen sheets as he holds one leg over your shoulder. His arm is wrapped around your thigh to keep it flush to his chest, preventing you from getting pushed further up the bed with the force of his hips pistoning into you.
You can hear the debauched noises of your tight cunt taking him over and over, stickiness pooling between your thighs and coating the length of his cock. He loves the sight of you like this: half-dressed in the luxuries he paid for, so similar in appearance yet utterly different to how you'd been on his arm just an hour ago at the festival his little sister had organised, a display of grace and propriety. And yet now, in the privacy of his bedroom, you have your pretty legs spread for him to use your body to his heart's content.
Ayato's commanding and composed demeanour endure in the bedroom too, his powerful thrusts demanding pleasure from your supple form.
"Just look at you~" He croons, leaning down so close that he can feel your panted breaths against his mouth, your lips parting slightly in preparation for a deep kiss. He can't help but smirk at your natural submission, the way you're so ready to give him something he's yet to even ask of you. He nips at your bottom lip, tugging it gently between his teeth and prompting the walls of your cunt to squeeze on him. He lets out a guttural groan, fingers digging into the flesh of your thigh as he holds it even closer to his pale chest, peppered with dark beauty marks like the one at his chin.
"You've been such a sweet lady all evening and now you're arching like a cat in heat." He can't resist bunching up your clothing more so it pools around your hips, exposing your puffy clit to his gaze as he watches the way your pussy grips his cock greedily, "Such a good girl; you know how to earn your keep, don't you?"
A whine of protest leaves your lips when he pulls out all of a sudden and you find yourself being manhandled onto your belly, hips propped up in the air by his hands so he can force a moan from you when he delves right back into your addictive hole. His hand tangles in your head to pull your head back in order his his lips to brush against the shell of your ear when he next speaks: "And you're all mine."
⋆ :₊ Diluc Ragnvindr is very classy with his money, as to be expected of someone from old money: he doesn't do very much to show it off with big gestures or clothes that are distinctly designer; he prefers to spend his money on things that are made to suit his own tastes rather than to impress those around him. The same goes for how he treats you: his gifts for you are subtle but of finest quality, only distinct to those with an eye for it.
⋆ :₊ The books he gives you are all special editions, hardbacks made to endure time and use. The jewels he gives you are of highest grade but are fashioned into beautiful pieces to fit your style. The clothes he gets you? So many are for everyday use but are all tailored exactly to your figure and needs, the materials ever so fine and made to last. Diluc is a gentleman at his very core and just loves knowing he can provide all these luxuries for you, keep the manor roof over your head, put those brilliant smiles on your face.
Diluc is needy too. Your relationship with him goes beyond financial transaction and material exchange. He yearns to feel wanted, to see you do more than extend your hands to him for gifts but to see you bear your heart and soul to him too. He needs love and romance in a relationship so intimate.
And so his cheeks are almost as red as his hair when he's leaning back against the chaise of his bedroom, your gorgeous curves illuminated by the warm flames of the fireplace as you ride him. He's ever so thick and hard for you, cock twitching in the heat of your cunt at the sight of your breasts bouncing. His gloved hands curve around your hips, squeezing as a moan spills past his lips.
One hand reaches up to cradle the nape of your neck and pull you into a searing kiss, tongue gliding against yours as he swallows your moans. The sound of your slick cunt milking his cock duets the lewd smack of your ass against the tops of his thighs as his lips glide across your neck. A needy moan pours past his lips as his arm winds tightly around your waist, muscles tense and bulging in a view that has you squeezing on him even more as you feel him spurting his cum into you. You pause for a moment as he pants, forehead resting against your shoulder while he holds you close.
"Don't stop yet-" He huffs out, "I need more of you, darling." Who were you to refuse? You continue to ride him, teasingly grinding your hips so that your clit can drag against him. He seems to pick up on the message as he leans back against the plush seat more so he can reach down and rub his leather-clad fingers against your puffy pearl.
His head falls back as he bites his lip at the heightened sensitivity, scarlet hair pouring down his freckled shoulders. His attention to your clit has you grinding with added eagerness and his other hand cups your ass, squeezing your soft flesh and using his strength to help you bounce up and down with more ease.
"Need to fill you up with my seed. You'll let me, won't you, my love?" He breaths out a blissed sigh and leans in enough to capture your lips in another kiss, "Let me fill you, breed you... I know you want it just as much as I."
⋆ :₊ The complete opposite to Diluc, Ningguang loves to flaunt her wealth and the jade chamber is certainly proof of it. She's self-made after all and knows she's more than earned the right to show off her success. She's busy for most hours of the day and the few she has remaining are often spent resting. So, when she does have the time to be with her sugar baby, she want's to see you showing off her money that you've spent.
⋆ :₊ She wants you laid back in her bed in just gold and cor lapis jewellery, no clothes to conceal you. Necklaces stacked on your neck, jewels at your ears, anklets, rings to adorn your fingers – all of it. Ningguang wants to see that you've been her spoiled little sugar baby while she's been working.
Ningguang can feel the press of your necklaces and soft breasts against her abdomen as you fail to grind back against her mouth where she's lapping up all the sweet, sticky nectar your cunt has to offer. Likewise, you're diligently suckling on her clit, head trapped between her soft thighs that demand you don't pull away until she allows it.
The Tianquan delights in feeling the mewls and whines from you vibrate against her pussy that's already puffy with need from how obediently you're eating her out. She laps languidly along your slit, tongue swirling around your pearl while her hands eagerly fondly your plush ass, encouraging the way you're needily trying to ride her face.
"So greedy, pretty thing. Has my mora been insufficient in my absence? You need so much of my attention too?" She lets out a low laugh of amusement at the way you eagerly nod your head despite the way her thighs are locked around either side of it. "Just look at how this sweet pussy drools for me~" She croons and harshly sucks on your swollen clit, releasing it with a wet pop. "You're so soft, dear, so sweet~ I'm glad you've been taking care of this pretty body in my absence... now let me care for her final needs~"
Your world flips and you find yourself sucking in cool gulps of air as you're released from the heat that's built up between her thighs. Her white hair tickles your shoulders as it falls like a curtain around you when she captures your lips in a searing kiss, forcing the two of you to share each other's tastes on your tongues, lips glossy with one another's slick.
You're unable to hold back the cry you let out against her mouth when she presses two fingers into you and curls them upwards in a come-hither motion. They slide in with no resistance at all given how wet you are from her smart mouth.
"Let's make up for all that lost time tonight~"
⋆ :₊ Pantalone is as mean as he is a generous sugar daddy. He's rich because he never forgot who owed him what and he charges interest. So, in a transactional relationship with him, he wants you to know that as much as he'll spoil you absolutely rotten, he wants you to work for it. Him taking you to high-end places or spending the day spoiling you guarantees you won't be sleeping much that night.
⋆ :₊ The Regrator doesn't like to keep business waiting and so when he's owed something of you, he'll take it. He might expect you to visit him while he's at work at the bank, no panties on under your dress so that he can access your pussy with ease. He's taken you out for a fancy meal and paid for all your drinks? Don't be surprised when he guides your hand to his lap for you to jerk him off then and there – and don't make a scene or mess of it either or you'll find yourself over his knee once you return home. But most of all, he loves the idea of equal exchange: the more money he spends on you, the more he gets to indulge in your body.
And so, after he spent yesterday spending his mora on you, Pantalone has you a trembling, incoherent mess as he has you pressed up against one of the pillars that line his home office, the room decorated in sophisticated and sensual shades of black and dark purples and blues – much like how you feel your body will be left looking with the way his fingers are gripping into the soft flesh of your ass.
Your legs are held up in the crooks of his arms, your body sandwiched between his lean figure and the cool marble behind you. Your shaky hands are tangled in his inky hair, arms wound around his neck to keep you held up. The spacious office resonates the lewd cacophony of your desperate whimpers, his grunts, the wet smack of his hips against you as his cock pistons in and out of your aching hole, and the low hum of the vibrator that's been pleasuring your mind to much for far too many orgasms to keep track of at this point.
He's stripped you down to nothing but your stockings while he's still practically fully clothed, just having pushed his pants down enough to take his cock out and pound you like this. It only makes you feel more debauched as you shake and cry out in his arms.
"Look at you... how lucky am I to have found a girl who takes her job so seriously, hm?" Pantalone groans as his thrusts become firmer, bullying against the deepest parts of your cunt while the vibe stimulates you both. "Utterly wrecked and already leaking with my cum but still writhing and mewling like a dutiful little slut." His teeth sink into the tender flesh of your neck.
You try to string a pleading sentence together but are unable to do so, simply babbling on his cock in completely tortured bliss. It only makes him let out a dark, amused laugh.
"That's it, you keep trying to beg and I'll take you out again if you can even walk by this time tomorrow.
⋆ :₊ Wriothesley might not be known as a rich man throughout Teyvat – or even Fontaine for that matter – but within the Fortress of Meropide? There's no one richer. Regardless of whether you're in the fortress for your own crimes or perhaps you were born here, you're his once you've established your sugar baby relationship with him. He's a possessive man and so he doesn't want you entertaining the advances of others when you should be all his. He wants you around him enough that everyone else gets the memo too. Dedicating his fights to you, having you on his arm, kissing your hand at any opportunity in public, getting you all dolled up to invite you to hearings at the Opera Epiclese he's called to attend for prisoners, etc.
⋆ :₊ While the Duke's wealth isn't particularly measured in mora like many others' on this list, no one has more credit coupons than him in the Fortress of Meropide. With enough wit and trade, that wealth can be exchanged outside of the fortress too to bring in whatever luxuries he – or you – desire. But, given that Wriothesley's wealth is in a different currency to what the rest of the continent uses, getting you all sorts of presents and treats from the outside world requires much more effort and strategy: effort that he expects to be repaid.
And so you find yourself on all fours atop the crumpled sheets of the Duke's bed. You feel almost dizzy from the combination of pleasure and the pull of the collar and leash around your throat. He has the chain wrapped around his fist, holding your hip firmly in his other hand to push your back into a pretty arch for him. He's panting heavily as he thrusts into the warmth of your pussy, watching how it greedily suckles on his thick cock. Your skin is already mottled with as many bruises and bites as his is with scars.
The pull on your leash has your cunt squeezing in delight as his massive frame looms over you and he lets go of the tether, letting the chain rattle as it falls across your back. You can feel the press of his chest against you, ridges of his muscles meeting your skin between the sheen of sweat you've both worked up. His fingers grab at your cheeks, squishing your soft skin as he tilts your head to look at what's hanging over the door of the ajar wardrobe in front of you, the very treat you're currently repaying him for: a custom outfit form Chiori herself who stayed here in the Fortress while she took all your measurements and learned just what style would suit both your personality and lifestyle.
Given that she wanted to be accommodated better than what the average cell and cafeteria here can provide, her stay ended up being quite costly to Wriothesley who was the one funding this all after you'd batted your lashes so sweetly with your pretty eyes on him and begged for such an exquisite gift while your lips lavished and pampered his cock.
As much as he wants to fuck you in your outfit and hiss in your ear, asking if it was worth such a dent to his time and expenses... he also wants it to last more than a day lest Chiori wonder what could have ruined her fine work so quickly...
"Is that what you wanted?" He croons with such faux sweetness that it drips like a syrupy venom from his tongue, "Pretty outfit by some big name just for you?" You whine and eagerly nod your head to express your gratitude. "Good... because I'm going to squeeze every damn credit coupon out of your tight little cunt for all the trouble you put me through to get it." A moan spills past his lips as he hooks an arm around your belly and pulls you even closer to him.
⊹₊ liked it? why not:
∘ buy me a coffee? ∘ comms. ∘ taglist ∘ follow/reblog
ᯓ✩ 𝒑.𝒔: how are we feeling about the new post layout/aesthetics?
best friend alhaitham who somehow has become your designated "will this guy be a good boyfriend or not" detector. except he keeps rejecting every single one of the candidates you brought up to him with the most ridiculous but logical reasons that you can't really refute.
"you've reiterated that you wanted a man who wouldn't prioritize his career over family, and he has confessed that his dream is to become the akademiya's grand sage. continuing to see him would merely expend meaningless energy on your part."
"he dislikes your favorite color and is allergic to cats. your future living arrangements are bleak."
it's when you've finally had enough, when you yell in frustration for him why don't you just pick someone who would make a good boyfriend for me, then!ー he finally stares at you, snaps his book close, and declares with the utmost confidence: "objectively speaking, that would be me."
Sometimes, you wake in the middle of the night to find Childe staring at you. Completely still, a battle-hardened warrior waiting in the bushes for prey. It’s such a stark contrast to his daytime playfulness that you don’t know what to make of it.
The nightlight beside your bed is meant to keep the dark out, but it never reflects in his eyes – those pools of the bottomless ocean that are watching, always watching, from where he’s perched on the edge of the bed.
“Ajax?” It’s the same every time. Your voice is slightly slurred, groggy from sleep. He blinks. It still isn’t enough to snap him out of his stupor, so you have to reach out. And as soon as your fingers entwine with his, he melts, a soft, almost inaudible sigh escaping his lips.
He likes being curled up in your arms when he finally comes to bed. There’s nothing that can quell that odd jerkiness of his actions more than your arms around him and sleepy praise mumbled into his hair.
“You love me, right? You’ll never leave me?” The words are always halting, muffled by your chest.
“Of course.” And it doesn’t matter if your answer is the same every time; he still asks again and again like he needs you to reach into his ribcage and brand your allegiance onto his raggedly beating heart.
genie's notes; commissioned piece by @lucienbarkbark who was an angel to work with! it's always fun to dive into fanfic so thank you for giving me the opportunity to do so; have fun reading! ♡
the snezhnayan winters are deathly cold, but even then, they are not nearly as chilling as your husband’s ire.
rarely are you ever the object of his interrogation, but there are those inevitable few moments you’re reminded of how old habits really do die hard—you slip up, in spite of all your best efforts—and hell freezes over.
take, for instance, right now.
because although his lips curl into something akin to a smile, you know childe far too well to believe this is anything but a deception, returned in favour of your own omissions.
the heat of the nearby fireplace’s flames lick at your feet and are, you recognise, the last remnants of warmth in the room. even the heavy fur coat draped over your shaking shoulders does little to protect you against childe’s blue eyes, cutting into you like shards of dark ice.
“ajax,” you plead. “i’m—”
“a liar.” childe finishes for you; his voice is deceptively gentle, soft as a lull. it devastates you when he laughs. “you’re a liar, my love.”
he’s got all of your letters in his hands. already, you know you’ve lost. the envelopes have been ripped open and the codes deciphered. how stupid of you to believe you could make a fool of the eleventh harbinger.
the silence that follows; settles down into the space between the two of you, is long and languid. your husband is in no rush to speak, seemingly content in merely taking in the way you’re squirming before him. he is eager, yet impassive, in his appraisal. it’s not the reverent sort you’ve gotten so used to, for there are no sweet nothings whispered against your skin as he lets his eyes linger on the softest parts of you.
tonight, his observation is more akin to an examination. an analysis, perhaps. like he’s looking for something—finds it, you realise with a sinking feeling, as his gaze snags on your hands, curled up by your sides, and marred by deep, black, ink.
damning markers of your disloyalty.
instinctively, you let the sleeves of your coat fall past your wrists. it’s a futile attempt at delaying the inevitable, and it makes you feel like nothing more than a guilty little girl having been caught with her hand in the cookie jar. you can’t stand the silence anymore. you really need to just—
archons—
the hair on your skin stands on end when he finally deigns to meet your eyes. beneath the weight of his cold gaze, you think anything would be better than this. it’s difficult not to walk right into the fireplace; lie down amidst the welcoming warmth of the flames that burn so brightly.
“i tried to trust you, y’know? i let you send your family little letters, and i never opened any of them even when all i wanted,” he confesses, “was to tear those pretty envelopes apart. i’ll admit, i even thought about breaking a finger or two a couple of times, did you know that? nothing to post if you can’t write.”
he looks to you for an answer, and it’s all you can do to stare back. he shakes his head, then. “no, no. of course you don’t know. how could you? you thought you had me all figured out.”
you have to force yourself to speak, because the words don’t come easy when you’re on the verge of a meltdown. you don’t even recognise the strangled sound of your own voice. “i’m sorry. i’m so, so sorry. please don’t hate me.”
“sweetheart,” he chides, fingers pulling the corners of his lips down into a melodramatic frown. “i could never hate you. i’m just, y’know, curious.” he lets his hand fall back to his side, pale mouth splitting into a sharp grin as he takes a step closer. “only wondering where i went wrong with you, that’s all.”
“nowhere. you didn’t.” your eyes are burning, though his are still crystal clear. lucid. sharp. he is immovable. you feel like the yielding force of weightless waters that split apart before a glacier’s path. “it’s all my fault.”
“i thought we put all this behind us. that you’d finally gotten it through your head.” he stalks closer, even steps far too measured to be casual. “imagine my surprise when i read these letters my wife begged me to let her send to her family and, ohh! would you look at that?”
“my little wife,” childe's voice falls completely flat, “thinks she can leave me.”
you cast a quick glance around your bedroom, scanning the space in your immediate vicinity for anything to hold onto. the vacant eyes of porcelain dolls and ornately carved figurines from your favourite novels all stare back at you emptily. a typewriter gathering dust by the windowsill. how it used to delight you at first, filling your monotonous days holed up within the walls of your husband’s prison by decorating it with pretty things.
they’re all useless to you now.
you wonder why childe chose not to cut off your fingers. he should have, you think. then you would never have ended up here. then maybe you would never have had any hope.
but you know the answer to your own question. after all, you’ve known him long enough to understand that childe finds great amusement in the way you still manage to carry that quiet hope within you.
oftentimes, he’ll catch you roaming the halls of this maze-like palace, attempting to mentally chart your way out. and every time he catches up to you, he’ll laugh, and press a kiss to your cheek, as if he knows exactly what you’re up to. as if it’s some sweet, private jest the two of you share.
“please, ajax.” you try again, “tsaritsa’s soul, i never meant to—”
“yeah, yeah. save it, love. there’ll be plenty of opportunities to beg for forgiveness later on.” you know it’s all for show when he pretends to think something over; nothing more than a performance when he suddenly snaps his fingers with an eager grin. “oh, that reminds me! i actually have something i needed to tell you.”
you watch as he thumbs through the stack of opened letters in his hands. you catch glimpses of your familiar scrawl; the desperation painfully obvious in your every etching onto the papers, begging your family to send a saviour, to reach out to the adventurer’s guild or the archons and send a cavalry to come knocking down the doors of the tsaritsa’s palace.
“you’ll love this one, sunshine.“i mean, well, you kinda have to. don’t have much of a choice, huh?”
all of it is a performance. from the ease with which he tosses the envelopes into the fire down to the very cadence of his voice as it takes on a familiar, sickeningly sweet lilt. you know this because you remain acutely aware of the fact that childe knew exactly what he was going to do with you the moment he finished reading those letters.
that doesn’t mean you’re ready for it.
“we’re going to liyue, lovely. i’m going to let you see your family again. i mean, isn’t that so much nicer than sending a letter? we’ll even catch the lantern rite whilst we’re there.” you sink deeper into your furs, stumbling away from him for every step he takes closer. “figured it’d be good for you.”
childe’s voice dips an octave lower, and the curl to his lips is a mockery of the usual smile that sits there just for you. “good for the baby, too.”
“tartaglia.” it’s impossible to see his face through the tears; everything in the room takes on the haze of a distant memory, and you wish, so desperately, that this moment would be over sooner. you could tuck it away within the recesses of your mind and never visit it again. let it be another lesson. “what baby?”
“your mother was overjoyed at the news.” he hums absently, “she said something about your haircut? mentioned already working extra hours to commission new baby clothes.”
your back hits a wall. and finally, with nowhere left to go and no saviour here to help you, childe takes his sweet time in catching up to you; and when he finally does, it’s all you can do to keep your neck painfully craned and looking up at him without falling to your knees.
“aren’t you excited, sweetheart?” he tilts his head, lifts a palm to cup your face. he’s smiling so earnestly, but his eyes are completely dull. you try searching for a sliver of the sunny man childe can sometimes be, and find, in place of the sunshine, the cold rays of light that hit shimmering snow and dissipate into nothing, instead. “finally, a family of our own making. it’ll be nice to go back to liyue, too.”
“i don’t understand.”
“it's simple, my love,” childe’s lithe fingers creep beneath the heavy fur coat you’re wearing. with deft hands, he slides it off your shoulders in one fluid motion. it falls onto the floor, dangerously close to the fireplace. a shiver rolls down your spine as you instinctively inch closer to your husband, seeking any semblance of warmth within the freezing halls of the palace. “it’s only tradition. it takes a village to raise a baby.” he laughs. “trust me, i know. my sisters were the sweetest little girls, but the boys have been a handful since birth. we’re going to need all the help we can get.”
“…ajax? i never—”
“i’m trying, y’know?” he takes off your glasses and presses a lingering kiss to your cheek. sighs against your skin as he folds up the frames and tucks them aside. “i’m trying very hard to be a good man for you, sweetheart.”
"listen to me, i—"
"you missed your family, sunlight. i get it, i’m a busy guy. i clearly wasn’t giving you as much attention as you needed. you obviously had too much free time on your hands. i figured if we had a family to tend to, that’d keep you busy. plus,” he grins. “i wouldn’t need to take your fingers! you’d never turn to anyone outside of zapolyarny. maybe, finally, you would also have something to love.”
you can barely breathe. “no, no i don't want—”
“you’ll learn to,” childe smiles. this time, finally, it reaches his eyes. “you’re going to adore our little one. trust me, sunlight; we’re going to be the only family you’ll ever need.”
you search his face for something, anything—and your heart breaks at the sight. you turn to the side, can’t even bear to face the man before you for a second longer, when all you find is a terrifying absence of anything but the deepest depths of conviction.
in the distance, as childe works to shed your body of all these elaborate furs between flittering kisses, you can already hear the sound of fireworks. when he sinks into you; a baby’s wailing cry.
the fire crackles cruelly, as your letters of desperation turn to ash, going unanswered for eternity right before your eyes.
cw. breeding kink, a lil mean wrio ???, mentions of pregnancy, fem! reader
to get his point across very well, wriothesley would push himself all the way to the back of your hot, warm cunt before pulling himself back completely, then repeating it— he's doing it once, then twice, yet he will not stop until you're sore from it, fed up with his taunting and in a gasping state of strong trembles.
it's gruesome, really, that's what it really was because the duke knew that whatever the case, that before he'd jam you with his cum, you'd already have started to beg for it— and you see, you liked it that way, always shaking eagerly under his weight when his thick shaft is all glossed up from you, mixed liquids spilling and his length ringed with filthy white.
everything and all, wriothesley did it for one real specific reason.
and between bitten-off hisses, mewls and sobs of pleasure and loud, passionate groans and long fingers digging into the plush of your ass, he suddenly says it out loud.
"wanna get it all inside," he mumbles, "so it stays..." then swallows back when you throb around his cock at his words.
your legs grow weak at the new sensation when he goes harder, and you're starting to feel giddy inside, perhaps excited, happy, thrilled? there's a bunch of emotions causing the shared intimacy to feel stronger than it did before, and to actually get pregnant by him wasn't a fear you had on your mind.
the man will say it again, but this time he'll say it slower and whisper it a little raspier, since you liked it so much.
he watches in joy and amusement on how you unravel as your pussy swallows his cock like that, so deep, so perfectly that wriothesley knows, he'll manage to get his cum where he wanted it, until you're genuinely turning pregnant this time.
not only are you able to feel the blood pumping through the thick veins ringed around the length of his cock, but how it's grazing at your delicate walls only made it so much more pleasurable— it adds to the shaking of your body, the delirium, showing off electric pulses running from your core until hitting your cunt being so desperately full of him.
— warnings. — fem! reader, breeding, lots of cum n spit, hitting it raw, petnames used: darling, baby, rough syx
⚝ — HEIZOU
it's addiction, a form of fixation and heizou doesn't stop until you're crammed full of his cum— literally as his fingers spread his seed from your lips down to your chin to watch it mark you, your tears mixing in as he presses his thumb past your tongue, just to see how far you'll take it.
"you're a damn masterpiece," heizou coos, tilting his head with a grin that's not just wicked— it's fanatical, wild, the kind of grin a man gives when he's long past the point of reason and fully drowning in sexual passion. his fingers were still wet with you, his knuckles glistening, and yet he kept them poised just out of reach, just enough to make you twitch, grind, gasp like you're coming undone without him even touching you.
"look at you," he drawls, voice so sweet you'd never tell he's feigning innocence, "quivering mess for me already? you don't even know what to do with yourself, do you?"
without looking away once, the detective watches— fixated as your thighs tremble, as your hips lift just barely from the mattress, chasing friction like you'll die if you don't get it, body slick and aching, soaked enough to stain the sheets beneath you— and archons, does it make him smirk wider, you feel it, the raw sting of overstimulation threading through your gut, curling your toes, making your stomach pull tight with the weight of everything he isn't letting you have.
"fuck, i knew you'd take it all baby," heizou's already painted you in his spit and cum— yet it's still not enough, it never was— instead, he pulls his cock from your tightness just to smear the tip over your swollen entrance, patting his dick on your folds, laughing breathlessly when it makes a filthy squelch, "this mess? this is mine, mine, gonna fuck it into you until it's leaking out onto the sheets, no one else gets to see you like this,"
and the detective makes sure of it— everlastingly keeping you plugged full of his slender fingers, thick cock and tongue and when you cum again, after he's bred and bred and bred you the entire night, you're spasming and gushing so violently it splatters all over the sheets. yet he doesn't stop, instead, heizou just shoves his cock back in deeper, harder until you writhe beneath him, back bowing again and again— each arch a reflex, a raw plea for mercy as numerous sparks burst behind your eyes, "gonna mark you with it baby, yeah? you'll be dripping for days."
⚝ — NEUVILLETTE
neuvillette's formality cracks the moment he realizes what he's done— your folds already glistening, your mouth open and wanting, wanting him and archons, dragons beyond, the way you soaked him up was putting him on edge as he drops to his knees like it's judgment, tongue diving in to taste his mess, face buried, nose brushing your clit as he moans like it's the only language he knew, "so wet already, you— you need correction,"
he rasps— voice rough, an octave lower, soaked in something that might be reverence if it weren't so wretchedly obscene— and still, he doesn't let you touch yourself, not even when your thighs begin to shake around him, not even when your body rocks with the force of how close you were, how desperately your slick pussy clenched around nothing in search of friction.
you ache, no, you burn, for the pressure the moment his girth was pressing into your walls again, the smallest touch setting you on fire, for anything to soothe the overwhelming throb between your legs.
your hands twitch where he's pinned them down, the need so sharp it's nearly painful as your stomach coils, tight and low and heavy, and all you could think about was grinding your hand down to help yourself out, circling your clit fast and frantic until you fell apart.
but neuvillette only watches you, drinking in the sight of your helpless squirming, the flushed heat of your skin, the lust in your eyes, the way you beg without words.
the man wanted to see it— that aching edge where pleasure becomes unbearable, he wanted to know how far he could take it, how much you'll squirm, how much of his seed he could store inside you, how loudly you'll whimper, all because he won't let you come.
"you want it that badly?" he whispers, lips ghosting your throat, "oh so greedy, darling, so desperate, do you even know how you look like this? shaking for me?"
and he still doesn't let you touch yourself.
he fucks you until you sob, fills you until you cry, until your juices were slicking up his pelvis, spit frothed into the mess, his hands keeping you open wide before he pulls out to slowly rub his shaft between your folds again, your slick and his cum coating his erection so fucking nicely the overstimulation has you grinding down against his cock in mindless circles, hips chasing friction like you're possessed, like your body had forgotten how to stop.
"i need to see it," he growls, standing, slapping the head of his cock against your cunt, "need to watch it drip out," and when neuvillette fucks you full, it's with unbearable precision— every thrust calculated, dragging your walls wide and making you feel how his cum fills every inch, "don't try to hold it in, darling, let it spill out, let them all see how thoroughly i've claimed you."
⚝ — WRIOTHESLEY
to wriothesley it was certainly not enough to just fuck you— he wanted to destroy you, breed you until you're feeling only him and his warm seed pooling from your hole, the man wanted to see his release flooding your pussy, cum mixed with spit and arousal as he mouths at your chest, grunting into your skin.
"you're so fucking good at taking it," he pants, "i'm impressed," as his voice turns husky, cracked open at the seams, like he's trying to growl but the sound gets caught somewhere in his chest— because fuck, you're tight, yeah? tighter than he expected, tighter than he could handle without his breath catching and his rhythm faltering for just a split second.
naturally the handsome man doesn't say it out loud, but you could feel it— how his hips were stuttering every now and then, how his hands gripped you harder, how his mouth parted like he's choking on the heat of it all.
he's supposed to be in control, isn't he? always was, right? but the way you clenched around him made something shiver through his whole body as his forehead falls against yours, damp and hot, "fuck, you're gonna make me cum too fast like this— shit—'", as his cock drags so deep inside you it knocks the rationality off your head, your toes curling and thighs twitching in exhaustion, hips jerking involuntarily, yet he's thrusting down harder just to make you feel more of that unbearable stretch.
the obscene pressure made your mind go white and your slick drip down his thighs, "but you're gonna take more, aren't you? I'm gonna stretch this hole until it can't hold another drop," as wriothesley shamelessly spits between your legs before watching it drip down to mix with your slick, his groans landing on your ears as if it's heaven.
"gonna fill you again," he growls between thrusts, hips slamming into you, "again and again until i fucking see it running down your thighs," as he doesn't stop even when pretty tears bead your lashes— wriothesley just flips you over, presses your cheek to the soaked sheets and fucks you through your whimpers, "you're gonna wear my cum like a brand."
⚝ — ALBEDO
scientific? sure, terrifying and obsessed? please.
albedo watches every twitch, every pulse, every droplet that slips from your hole after the first round, "fascinating," he mutters something dark underneath his breath, fingers sinking into the obscene slick between your thighs— warm, wet, and clenching as though your body itself was begging.
he groans low when he feels the way you pulse around nothing, fluttering and soaked, hips twitching like you cannot bear the emptiness. yet his hips don't move at first— just press deeper, just spread you wider, parting the mess to watch how it drips and sticks, how your whole body quivers from the exposure.
albedo curses, "ahh, you're throbbing for me already? this way? this wet?" it leaves him like instinct, resembling life— something deeper than thought, older than want, "you're clenching so tightly, it's trying to hold me in," as he continues to be brutal the second time— driving in so hard your breath leaves your lungs, his mouth messy and open against yours.
"do you feel that?" he hisses, sharp and low, but you barely hear anything over the blood rushing in your ears, your toes curling helplessly, nails digging into his back as sparks of raw lust flare through you— wickedly so, unrelenting shocks that made your body flinch and jolt against him.
your stomach felt tight, heavy, on the brink of exploding— like it's about to break open from how close you were, how full you felt of his cum, how deep albedo was inside you.
every thrust knocks your head back into the pillows, making your body seize up like it's trying to run and stay all at once as he groans when you clamp down at his cock, and the way you twitch around him drove him into madness, "how it gushes back out when i pull? yet i hate seeing it leave you," as he spreads you wider, studies how his cum seeps out, then pushes it back in with slow, filthy thrusts, "again, you'll take it all again, i want you dripping from the mouth and cunt, maybe both— marked inside and out, i need to make it happen."
I'm at the sea as I'm posting this. It's very cozy in here.
Content warnings include: Suggestive nonconsensual stuff and implied NONCON, cisfem!Reader (THOUGH not very prominently), yandere content (imprisonment, possessiveness...), fondling and talk of boombayah plus mild bondage.
⋆ Around 2,0k words. Minors, do not interact.
⋆ Genre: Humble and honest horny content
Disclaimers can be found in my pinned post. See right here for the full list of October's plans!
If you had to name one thing you absolutely despise about the Fortress of Meropide, it wouldn’t be the damp, musty air, nor would it be the ashen dust covering every nook and corner of the metal-plated walls. It wouldn’t be the deafening noise emitted by the cogs and gears turning, the blazing hot steam rising from the machinery, the strange looks from the other residents that linger on your back as you walk by, nor the unfulfilled dream of once again getting to witness the sight of sunlight. All of it, you can tolerate by biting your lip and indulging in the little positives your life in the prison can offer, but one thing never ceases to embed such unbearable despair in you that you would rather sink into the bottom of the Primordial Sea than suffer through it any longer.
Wherever you run inside the stronghold, no matter how good of a hiding spot you think you have found, you can always, unconditionally be sure that the Duke will find you in no time.
You sit behind a curving pipe at the very end of a closed-off hallway, catching your rasping breath. Though your breakout has once again concluded at a dead end, you’re pretty certain that you’ve never made it as far before as you have now. The corridor is well hidden beneath the main pathways of the prisoners’ quarters, and you had to climb over two sets of ”no entry” barriers to get where you are. From what you were able to tell, the surveillance cameras in the area are scarce, and with a bit of luck, you think you’ll get to have a while alone before your steps are getting retraced.
It’s dead silent in Meropide. The time is past the hour of the residents’ return-to-cells announcement, signalling the unofficial lights-out of the Fortress, yet the case isn’t the same for you, not even close to it. The people of the prison — guards and convicts alike — have long since grown used to the sight of a woman frantically sprinting through the halls seemingly in search of something every Saturday night. You’re not sure how Wriothesley has managed to keep them from asking questions, but for as long as you can remember, you’ve been nothing but air to them, despite the obvious violation of rules.
Saturday night. Whereas you once used to celebrate the arrival of the weekend back in the times of your freedom, nowadays it only sows terror in your heart. It’s the only time of the week Wriothesley has dedicated time off from his duties. The entire evening, he has no responsibilities to attend to, and so, the precious few hours he has been granted he wants to devote to you.
You must have gone past the mark of fifteen minutes already. It’s difficult to keep track of time while trying to remember your way, but during your many attempts, you’ve learned to estimate the approximate duration of your run. In the back of your mind, you know, you’re all-too-aware that you’re simply delaying the inevitable, and that just like every prior time, you have once more failed in your mission to flee. Yet still, you bid a wish to the stars unseen to you that for this once, he wouldn’t be able to find you. But, alas, both you and the deities that watch over you understand that certain things are beyond the strength of their intervention.
The sound of slow, placid footsteps echo through the corridor. The unmistakable clack of his boots against the metal floor is a noise you would recognize anywhere. By this point, the clinking of the handcuffs he spins around his finger often follows you to your nightmares.
Pulling your thighs to your chest, you bury your head beneath your folded arms. Making your form as small as possible, you don’t peek at the end of the hallway from where you’re hidden behind the pipe. Not that it would make any difference towards the unavoidable result, but for what it’s worth, you’re going to evade the sight of his face for as long as you’re able.
You listen to the sound approaching. Gradually, unhurriedly, he grows nearer, nearer, nearer, until finally, the tip of his black boot steps into your field of vision.
Wriothesley lets out a sigh as you refuse to even raise your face from your knees to acknowledge his arrival. Though, his reaction isn’t born of disappointment or irritation: Rather, you would describe his tone to be a little sympathetic, even.
Spinning the handcuffs around one more time, he hooks them back on the loop on the side of his belt. As he always does after the chase has come to an end, he takes out his pocket watch.
”Huh. Attagirl”, he comments. ”19.56 minutes. That’s a new record.”
Though you can hardly feel a single tinge of happiness as you hear the result your efforts have yielded, you can’t deny the tiny spark of pride that swells inside you. Your last best was just under 18 minutes: Evidently, you’ve grown faster, more stealthy.
”I take it you’re not too hurt anywhere?” Wriothesley then asks as he squats down in front of you. ”The fall at the stairs looked a bit rough through the cameras.”
Your cheeks flush. It’s true; in your hurry, you tripped over your own legs back at the central area of the Fortress. Though your knee still aches from having to bear the landing, one more bruise in addition to the myriad already staining your limbs is no longer something you’re too dismayed about.
”I’ll have Sigewinne patch that up for you later”, he continues.
Carefully, he reaches out for your huddled body. Instinctively, you wince away from the contact, pulling even further into yourself. Another sigh breaks past Wriothesley’s lips.
”Hey. I know you’re still having a bit of a hard time adjusting”, he says, trying to catch your averted gaze with his own. ”How about I be gentle this time? I know I roughed you up a bit too much last week, and I’m sorry about that. I think I can manage today.”
”...”
“This is not to insult, but you look like you could use a good fucking. Don’t you think so?”
Your brows furrow.
You expected nothing more — or, one should say, nothing less. He’s a busy man, and with only a few free lots in his schedule, you would be stupid to think he would want to fill them with anything other than using your body to his heart’s content. He isn’t one for quick acts of carnality: You haven’t piqued your curiosity by asking him why that might be, but from what you’ve understood, he prefers not to leave things halfway done. The same holds true when it comes to him indulging in sexual things.
In a way, you’ve never had to fear him being unpredictable regarding his desires. You don’t have to guess, you don’t have to wonder when he’s going to strike: It’s always on the same day, same hour — Saturday night.
”Let’s get you back at the office, yeah?” Wriothesley leans in closer despite how you try to withdraw from him, landing his hand on the crown of your head and softly ruffling your hair. ”I’ll let you be on top today if you behave, heh.”
Such words are empty, too. Or, technically speaking, he’s talking the truth: He’ll allow you to get on top, to ease yourself on his cock at your own pace, but as he finds that you’re not enthusiastic nor prepared enough, the perk of ”enjoying the show” isn’t quite enough for him anymore. Whether or not it has been his intention from the start, you’ll end up with a sore bottom when the morning arrives.
You wonder if anyone has ever overheard the ribaldry the Duke engages in behind closed doors. As far as you know, in everyone else’s eyes, he’s a dignified man, albeit in his own way. His presence demands respect, yet with you, the authority is handled via a different route entirely.
”Alright, pretty thing”, Wriothesley’s touch moves down to your arm. Softly, he attempts to tug you away from your shelter.
”No”, you whisper. Shaking your head, you grab the hand much bigger than yours, yank it off of you. ”I don’t-, I don’t want to do that with you.”
”Hey”, he exhales, nudging your shoulder. ”You’ve had all evening to prepare yourself. Next time, how about you leave the hide-and-seek out of the schedule?”
You bite down on the inner side of your bottom lip as your mouth twists into a frown. Wriothesley doesn’t really react to the shift in your expression, only acknowledging it by gently caressing the curve of your elbow.
”Let’s go, yeah?” he then says, tilting his head towards the open corridor. ”I’d rather take you in the bedroom than in some cold corner of the Fortress. It’s your choice.”
It’s a losing game you’re playing. No matter what you choose, regardless of what you say or do to him, you know that after your little getaway has come to an end, you’re going to be having his dick inside you one way or another. It’s an act of mercy that he allows you to decide which way it shall be, but even then, all the roads lead to the same result.
Yet, in your stubbornness, you remain still. Finally, you raise your gaze to look at him, and you do so just to be able to send him the meanest, most defiant glare you could possibly muster up.
Wriothesley’s icy cold irises stare back at yours. There’s a hint of amusement, maybe even endearment, on his pale features. He closes his eyes.
”Very well”, he then muses, leisurely rolling his neck back. ”Let’s have it your way, then.”
Though, in your rational mind, you knew to expect what would follow your act of obstinacy, you still take fright as he proceeds to yank you towards him by your arm. You try to resist, you attempt to push at his chest with your free hand with all your might, but the opposition is short lived. Once again, you get to witness the sheer difference in strength between him and you as your body is promptly spun around, and the next thing you’re faced with is the rusty, coarse metal of the wall.
Letting out a gruff chuckle, Wriothesley twists your wrists behind your back like he would do to a misbehaving convict, and soon, the cold metal of his handcuffs makes contact with your skin. Swifty, the mechanism clicks into place, and with a low huff, he pushes your chest up against the panels. Your knees scrape against the floor as you try to find your balance, but you don’t have to worry about your footing for long as next, his own form presses up against your back and cages you between him and the wall. Setting his hands on either side of your head, he effectively blocks even the smallest chances for your exit. Unhurriedly, utilizing the the sort of silent intimidation only he is capable of, he leans into the side of your head and hums directly into your ear.
”Sweet thing”, he speaks, planting a peck on your temple.
One of his arms detaches from the wall and instead snakes around your waist. His hand gropes around the waist of your bottoms before it slips underneath your shirt, sliding all the way up to your chest where it settles over your bare breast. Tenderly, he begins fondling the area.
”It’s not too late to change your mind, just so you know”, Wriothesley sighs. Digging his nose behind the shell of your ear, he greedily inhales your scent. ”I’ll carry you all the way back to the office if you want.”
In gentle, round motions, he massages your chest. The pads of his digits draw a spiralling shape around the mound before they close in on the nipple in the middle. Carefully, he rolls the bud in between his thumb and index finger.
”Nevertheless”, he presses his chest flusher against your back, ”let’s have it your way, then.”
pairing ꒱ྀི al haitham x fem reader — warnings ꒱ dub-con. exhibitionism. cum. creampie ﾉ breeding mention. some dirty talk . oral — fem receiving ﾉ repost ﾉ 18+
tucked away in the farthest corner, nothing could be heard except for hushed whispers and soft gasps.
“not here,” you whine, prickled with budding fear as your eyes cautiously scan your surroundings. unlike you, the scribe before you remained poised.
even now, in the wake of committing something so obscene, al haitham sported a passive expression along with an aura that subdued anyone who got too close.
you find yourself tongue-tied by this juxtaposition. his steady cadence when he commands to see your ‘little cunt’ couldn’t have made you more lightheaded. the contrast is what keeps you on your tiptoes—such vulgarity uttered in a striking blankness that leaves you to fill out the rest.
there was no way you could’ve assumed that this possessive demand of an ‘inspection’ would be another attribute of his personality. al haitham’s rationale is one of his most defining traits, and you couldn’t understand why your boyfriend of such prestige would spend his afternoon peeling back layers of frill and lace in between bookshelves.
he dedicates a lot of time to fulfilling his own needs, and you suppose that’s why he’s fixated on your pussy despite your hiccuping protest.
“no, no, no. h-haithy. . what if someone sees and we get in trouble ?”
bustling scholars were on every floor, nearly in every corner, but the library was massive. the odds of someone coming by your section were unlikely, but still not impossible, and it did nothing to settle you.
his hands attach themselves to your waist before trailing them down over your ass. “don’t get worked up.”
you want to scream at him for how unconvincing he sounds, not even trying to ease your worries. he towers over you, examining the panic etched on your face. he doesn’t say anything else, but he doesn’t need to — his narrowed eyes speak for him.
squirming, you huff, “y’can’t. . just look down there, okay? it's still drippy. . . and sticky.”
your orbs gloss over, and your sugared-coated sniffles are loud enough for the scribe to hear, but he pays your wails no mind. instead, he chooses to crouch down until he’s eye level with your hips.
al haitham raises your dress by the hem until it’s more than just your legs visible.
“put it in your mouth."
he pulls it an inch above your belly button, and just as he instructed, you part your lips to tuck the dress in your mouth to keep it from obstructing his view.
you turn your head away from him in embarrassment. the chatter, the rustling of papers, and laughter echoing not so far in the distance. the more you take in your surroundings, the more anxious you become. the gravity of being potentially seen becomes more imminent. you bite down harder on the dress, trying to keep your tears from spilling over.
al haitham’s gloved and nimble fingers play with the band of your panties. the shape of your lower lips pressed closely against the material, formed a damp spot that he was pleased to see. as he licked his lips, fingers pulled at the fabric, forcing them down.
when your underwear falls to your ankles, like a gentleman, he offers you his hand to help you step out of the soiled cotton before shoving it in his pocket. he then pats your knee.
“up.”
it takes a couple of seconds before you hesitantly raise your leg, but the scribe wasn’t having any of your timidity. al haitham cups behind your thigh and forces the limb much higher— so much that your silken lips slightly separate from the stretch. he soaks up the sight, staring in complete awe at the crystalline threads that ebb across your cunt.
his thumb caresses the smoothness of your skin, and his face closes the distance between your plump and moist flesh.
your clit and outer lips are glossed with your fluids. his cockhead beads white and pushes up against his underwear the longer he stares. too many memories circle his mind—the countless times he’s pounded your pussy until you were pulling away.
al haitham’s skillful finger rests on your nub, forcing you to bite back a dragged-out mewl. he then carefully strums across your folds, and lazily separates them.
“h-haithy,” you warble.
what you’ve been shying away from was finally occurring.the tips of his fingers settle on your thick and puffy lips to pull them apart. your clit, peeking out from under the hood, is a fleshy pink—taut and shiny with slick.
“still swollen from how I fucked it earlier.” a slight smile dawns on his expression.
“remember that? remember how I sowed my seed inside of you, how you asked—no, begged me to breed you ?”
tears were freely falling, not from the shame, but from his recount of today's earlier event and how it still managed to make you even wetter.
“you begged me to make you my wife if I recall. just so you can have my cock whenever you want.” his mouth brazes your skin.
“if you want me to grant your wish, the least you do is let me see the mess you’ve made.”
you croon instinctively, watching him inspect you further. your hole is agape, and your insides are painted white from the cum he stuffed you with just hours ago. the prolonged exposure of your stretched center forces a dollop of his seed to seep out onto the tile floor with a plat.
“would you look at that."
he soothes you by rubbing your perched thigh, kissing the inside of it. just as you begin to brace yourself, his lips twist and pucker on your clit.
the sudden wave of pleasure blindsides you, and you accidentally let a loud moan escape. anxiety sticks at you, but not enough to subside the feeling of your boyfriend mouthing your cunt.
he doesn’t dare close his eyes. with his nose flushed against your mound, he drinks up your ruined expression while his tongue runs laps over your clit. his eyes dare you— provoke you, pining for your release.
drool soaks your dress, your legs cramp, and your hands grip his hair to keep your rough humping of his mouth under control. you lose yourself to the thickness of his tongue that laps at the salt of his cum mingled with your honeyed arousal, a distinctive and satisfying flavor.
“c-can’t cum here, ’haitham” you muffle out, scared that your dress wouldn’t be enough to mute your outcry.
“you can’t ?”
he doesn’t remove his mouth from your heat, choosing to speak with his lips still nursing on your clit in between breaths, neglecting your hole.
“why not? don’t you want to be my wife ?”
yesyesyesyes. iwannabeyoureverything.
“you do, don’t you ? cum for me then, let me taste everything your pussy has to offer me.”
you’re drenched and sweaty, and your boyfriend doesn’t relent. forcing your eyes shut, you focus on that coil springing inside and the mouth that continues to devour your gooey cunt.
the build-up to your orgasm is maddening. you bite down hard and put your hand over your mouth as an added measure.
no one can hear you, you have to make sure of it.
the other hand pulls harder at his hair and presses him closer.
“cummin’!” you choke out. your body freezes up and shakes from the collision. his mouth doesn’t slow or fasten; it goes the same pace, savoring the saccharine sweetness of your release. he quietly groans around you so much that goosebumps erupt all over your body.
you almost forget to breathe.
it takes a few more minutes of more tender and thoughtful sucks against your cunt foral haitham reluctantly pulls away, his mouth stained with stringy fluids. the spasm of your walls pushes out the remaining cum inside like a leaky faucet. your sopping clit was sucked raw, and the apex of your thighs are damp with spit and cum.
al haitham smirks to himself, nodding in approval as he admires his work.
your future husband surely would be the death of you.
🐊 featuring: {separate}: 𝐱𝐢𝐚𝐨 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐤𝐚𝐳𝐮𝐡𝐚 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐥𝐲𝐧𝐞𝐲 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐳𝐨𝐮 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐥𝐨𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫
🐊 tw: yandere themes ⭐︎ non/dubcon ⭐︎ kidnapping ⭐︎ delusions ⭐︎ they’re mean es shii ⭐︎ two faced asl ⭐︎ sadism ⭐︎ masochism ⭐︎ bondage ⭐︎ footjob ⭐︎ spanking ⭐︎ degradation ⭐︎ babytrapping ⭐︎ choking ⭐︎ manhandling ⭐︎ face sitting (m! receiving) ⭐︎ 69 ⭐︎ rimming ⭐︎ feminization ⭐︎ lingerie ⭐︎ collar ⭐︎ humiliation ⭐︎ hair pulling ⭐︎ stockholm syndrome ⭐︎
🐊 an: ah yes, time to feed the twink lovers, wish you luck ♡
🐊 HEIZOU — Knick-knack!
The collar snaps before your eyes finish rolling.
Leather biting sharp into your throat – not tight enough to choke, just cruelly reminding you he already knew you'd try it.
It forces a sharp gasp out of you—one you don't get to finish, because Heizou's already using that strip of leather to drag you right back between his legs.
Knuckles skimming your jaw as he guides your head down, unbothered, like he'd mapped out every move you were going to make before you made them.
One moment you’re glaring.
Next, your mouth is full of him.
His cock slides hot and heavy over your tongue, and the startled glkh!— that bursts out of you only makes his grin sharpen.
"There she is," he says, voice bright and almost clinical. "I gave you three opportunities to stop before it got to this point. You picked this."
You barely manage a sputter before he adjusts the collar again—SNAP!—tightening it to borderline cut off airflow.
His expression doesn't go cold so much as settle — as if he's arrived somewhere he expected to be. You glare up at him on instinct.
Heizou’s eyes lit up like you’d handed him a present.
"Oh, still brave," he murmurs, thumb brushing your lower lip with idle curiosity, like he's noting it down somewhere. "Predictable, but brave. Don't use your teeth, sweetheart. I already know you're thinking about it."
You don’t get to protest.
Before he slams his hips upward, seating himself deeper in your throat so fast your nose hits his skin. His cock nudges a place you're not ready for, your throat seizing around him as your vision spots.
glk!- glkh- glk
Breath stuttering, lashes fluttering as he watches your throat struggle around him.
"T-there it is," he sighs, pleased in that infuriating, already-knew-it way he has. "Much more honest than whatever smart little comment you… were... hah… about to make. I clocked the exact wording, by the way. Would've been a good one."
You dig your nails into his thighs hard, a silent ‘go fuck yourself.’
The sound you make next — a humiliating, involuntary little choke — made you cringe… and him lose composure entirely.
Making Heizou moaned loudly, head tipping back, a low breathless "Ah–!" slipping out before he could catch it, olive eyes fluttering like your defiance knocked something loose in his chest he hadn't accounted for.
First thing he hadn't accounted for.
He stares back down at you, something flickering in his expression — recalculating. Then that grin returns, slower this time. More interested.
"Hm." His thumb drags your lip down, watching the spit string between skin. "You keep doing things I don't predict. Do you know how rare that is?"
Loosening the collar just enough for you to gasp—wrong move. Your pride flares, and you try to snap back, but all that comes out is a vibration against his cock, a choked mmph! that makes his hips jerk.
"Look at you," he says, catching a tear you didn't realize had fallen, holding it on his thumb like it's a clue. "Still fighting. Still dripping. And you think I can't tell which one you're more embarrassed about."
Then he's guiding your head back down—slow, but not merciful—letting his cock drag over every tender inch of your tongue while he keeps watching.
slrp!—mmph!—glk!
He follows the tremor in your thighs like a bloodhound.
Watches them press together, you pretending it's not happening. He clocked the exact moment your hips gave the smallest, traitorous twitch toward him.
"There it is.." quietly, to himself more than you, "You know~," he continues, tilting his head, "I wasn't planning to use more than one hand today. But you're so full of-” Then something warm slides between your knees. “-surprises.”
His foot.
The arch nudges your thighs apart, slow and so casual — like it's the obvious next logical step — exposing your soaked underwear to the cool air.
“Hm?” he coos, voice all faux-gentle mockery. "You're already this wet, and we're barely into the hypothesis."
His thumb traces idle circles on the leather strap. "Your body keeps contradicting itself. That's going to be a problem for you."
You try to shake your head — trembling, furious denial — but the collar stops the motion dead. His foot presses in, slow and deliberate, rubbing just enough friction against your panties to make your breath stutter out through your nose.
"You look furious," Heizou observes, voice soft with something worse than mockery — genuine fascination. "You should see your own face right now. You're trying so hard."
Foot rubbing in that same terrifying precision he puts into everything — deliberate circles right against your soaked panties. The pressure is perfect — teasing your swollen clit through the thin fabric while his cock stays buried deep in your throat.
"Every single time I discipline you," shaft still buried deep in your throat, foot working you toward something you're desperately trying not to give him, "your body does this. I've noted it. I have a very thorough record."
You try to grumble around him, but it only comes out as a wet, vibrating mmph that makes his length twitch on your tongue.
Heizou chuckles, low and delighted.
“Oh? You like that?” His foot moves faster, rubbing firm strokes up and down your dripping slit, toes curling to press right against your clit. “Look at you… trying so badly to glare at me while your pussy’s grinding against my foot like a desperate little whore.”
The combination is too much.
Your moan vibrates wildly around his length as your orgasm crashes through you — humiliating, what's worse is that he doesn't even look surprised.
"Mhm." He watches you shake apart with the quiet satisfaction of someone whose theory was confirmed exactly on schedule. "Right on time."
Not giving you a second to recover, his hips chase his own high with the same focused efficiency he does everything else, collar keeping you exactly where the evidence requires you to be.
With a low, unraveling moan — the least composed sound he's made all night — Heizou buries himself deep and cums.
He holds you through every pulse, breathing hard, that careful control finally fraying at the edges.
When he finally pulls back, thumb smearing across your swollen lip, he looks down at you with something that isn't quite the grin from earlier.
More like the face he makes when he's solved something that actually took effort.
"Good girl." Soft. Sincere, almost. He leans down and presses a kiss to your forehead — unhurried, like punctuation. "You know what the most interesting part of all of this is?"
Oh god
He tilts your chin up. "You already know exactly why you keep ending up here. You just haven't admitted it to yourself yet."
Grinning, eyeing your trembling form. "I'll wait. I'm patient. I already know the answer."
He gives the collar one last gentle tug.
"Knick-knack.~"
🐊 KAZUHA — W.T.F.
“K-KAZUHA WHAT T-THE FUCKKK!—”
Your voice cracks–as he slams into you, deep-deep-deep, the force of it yanking your silk-bound wrists taut against the beam above. The ropes creak as your spine arches.
And Kazuha just watches, amber eyes half-lidded, like he’s admiring the way your body jolts with every thrust.
Fingers cave into your hips, digging past the surface, marking you obsessively. He drives home with a smoothness that shouldn't be this brutal, each roll of his body a new lesson in how much you can endure.
One thrust.
Two.
Counting the hitches in your chest, timing his pace to the exact second your breath fails you.
“You’re shaking,” he whispers, voice soft as a lullaby. His hips snap forward—hard—and your gasp catches high in your chest, stuck.
“Is it the bindings?...” His thumb strokes your inner thigh, gently. “Or losing your Vision?”
He says it with a terrifying ease. He’d turned that stolen glass over in his palm earlier, eyes wide and worshiping, before tying you open and filling you.
Your body bounces with every stroke, helpless. “Hahh—!” spills out when he drags you down harder, his grip tightening, fingertips pressing deep enough to leave marks.
The pace picks up—smooth, controlled, relentless—like he’s chasing the sound of your breath shattering.
Plap! Plap! Plap!
The wet smack of skin on skin echoes across the water, obscene.
“Easy…” his breath is a warm ghost against your skin, but his weight is a solid, punishing reality stretching you open. “You keep tightening around me like this—”
A particularly vicious thrust punches the air straight out of your lungs, leaving you hollow. “—I might think you enjoy it.”
“I DON’T—” The words snap out, hot and immediate, but they lose their edge halfway.
Something is failing in the back of your skull. Your thoughts are sluggish, stalling, sinking into a gray fog.
Behind him, the box pulses with a weak, dying rhythm—your Pyro Vision guttering out, its fire turning to ash. You wrench your eyes away because the sight of your own fading ambition is a physical ache.
Kazuha grinds into you, a slow, cruel pressure right where your nerves are rawest, before driving up with a sudden, jarring force.
“Nghh—FUCK—!” It spills out, unbidden. Kazuha just exhales a quiet laugh against your cheek.
You hate the scent of him—cedar and salt air.
Hate the softness of his hair, untouched by the violence of his hips.
Most of all, you hate the memory of the same hand currently bruising your hip, tucking a blanket around your shoulders this morning.
You were something precious then.
Now, you’re just a prize.
The hate is there, but it’s slipping through your fingers, dissolving into the void where your Vision used to be.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, his voice a low vibration in your ear as he thrusts deeper. Schlk…schlk…schlk filling you sends a forced heat racing up your spine. “-my songbird is one of a kind~.”
“KAZUHA I SWEAR TO ARCHONS-” But your voice cracks. The fury is a cavernous gap, feeling emptier by the second.
Another brutal snap of his hips makes your back arch, the beam above you groaning under the strain.
“I thought you’d want it like this,” puzzled, a quiet, private observation. He pouts—a look of pure, confused innocence—while his thumb traces a slow, heavy line up your clit. “You said I was always too soft.”
His shaft pulsed a deliberate, agonizing hesitation just to watch you squirm.
“So I figured…” Another thrust, deeper, meaner. “…you’d like it rough.”
You try to muster up the strength to glare holes into him, but you could only whimper in despair at the effects of not having your vision increase.
Kazuha tilts his head slightly, watching the way your wrists strain against the ropes like you’re testing whether the knots might suddenly grow merciful.
“I’m sorry,” voice dropping, quieter. Almost apologetic, “it has to be like this.”
The sorrow in his eyes is real. Genuine.
It changes absolutely nothing about the pace of his hips.
Your breath comes in ragged gasps, chest heaving as he adjusts his grip — one hand sliding up your thigh, pushing your leg higher, spreading you wider.
You can feel it…the hollowness spreads slowly through your limbs like something being gently, methodically unplugged.
"Kaz..." Your voice comes out smaller than you want it to. "Kazuha, you said…hah y-you always said–"
"I know what I said." He says it softly, watching your face with that unbearable attentiveness, like he's memorizing something. "I meant it. Every word."
His hips roll forward, slow and thorough, and the sound that escapes you isn't angry at all. "I still mean it."
"Tch then why–"
"Because–" and here his composure cracks, "you were gunna to leave n' not come back- heh." fingers fondling your nipple, making you arch just perfectly into him as he pumps his thickened inches through every peak.
"And- I found," he continues, breathless now, white hair falling across his face as he drives deeper, "that I believe in your freedom–" thrust "completely–" thrust "except for that."
The boat sways, adding more force to his thrusts.
He chuckles darkly to himself, a tone you've never heard before. He swirls n' swirls his globular tip, the perfect rounded shape to press into your nerves.
And somewhere in the growing heaviness behind your eyes, you're realizing horribly, humiliatingly... that your hips have started moving back to meet him.
Kazuha notices it, his eyes going soft, reaching up to cup your cheek with a gentleness that has absolutely no friggin business being here right now.
"See?" like he's been waiting this whole time to say it. "Isn't this better than leaving?"
You don't answer, you can't tell anymore if the withdrawal is talking or something worse.
He angled slightly – deeper, more deliberate – and your whole body lurches forward with it, the ropes catching you, swinging you right back onto him.
Sloppy sounds fill up the whole cabin until there's no room for anything else. Including your thoughts.
They keep arriving slower now, holding more weight, and you're not sure if you can keep holding onto hate anymore.
Or even remember why you were so upset in the first place.
He feels it immediately – the shift in you. Kazuha has always been terrifyingly good at reading things.
Wind.
Weather...The exact moment you're about to stop denying him.
"Ah-" You gasp- he grinds into your poor, bruised g-spot. "I-i… m’still f-fuckin’ angryy–"
"Of course," kissing up your neck, he inhaled deeply, smiling against you, "You're allowed to be."
"That's not-" A whine punches out of you when he rolls his hips just so. "That's not what I– ngh– t-that's not the point!—"
"Then what is my love?"
And you open your mouth to tell him. You have the answer…you know you do, it was right there a moment ago, something about how wrong this is, something about him taking your vision, something about how this isn't what you wanted.
His shaft drags slowww and thoroughly across that spot inside you, and every single word dissolves.
"Hm~?" Kazuha waits expectantly as the thoughts leave your face, morphing into something that isn't guilt anymore.
"It's alright." He presses a kiss to your temple. "You don't have to say it."
…He's already decided, somewhere in that poetic, completely unwell little heart of his, that this is love. That this is the right thing, that you'll understand eventually.
"Fuhck- ah! Kazu—" hips rolling back to meet him before you even register doing it—He shivers a single tremor moving through that carefully composed body, his breath catching audibly.
His rhythm stutters for just a fraction of a second. And then it happens — the thing he's been holding back since he tied you in the boats for days now.
"Y-you feel—" He stops, then tries again. "You feel so—" he really can't finish it.
Those eyes have gone somewhere glassy and distant — still looking at you, but seeing something past the surface of you, something he's been navigating toward for a very long time-
Both arms wrapping around you, silk ropes and all, folding you into him like something he's been holding in his hands for years and is only now allowing himself to keep.
His cock pulses deep. His breath comes apart completely.
"Don't leave," he moans into your hair, and it’s not a request or a command either. He’s already made up his mind and refuses to be argued with. “Don't leave. Don't leave. Don't—"
Your mouth falls slack, and you bring what little energy you have to bite into your fist as you scream, cumming all over his shaft.
Your walls clenching around him, as a sound slipped out, one you're sure you’ll be embarrassed about later.
Kazuha grunts, a hand jumping to his mouth, trying not to be loud.
Juices connecting you two, losing the careful rhythm entirely, and then he's shuddering against you, spilling deep, face buried in your neck, lips moving against your skin in something that might be your name or might be an unhinged poem or both.
Your vision flickers once behind him…going out.
…
The boat rocks gently in the silence that follows, his arms wrapped around you, holding you softly.
After a long moment, you hear him sigh.
"Im sorry..." A pause. "I just thought this was kinder."
🐊 KINICH — Got his lick back
SMACK!
"AH—!"
The sharp crack of his palm against your ass echoes through the room like a hunter’s whip.
Your cry breaks out raw and humiliating, but Kinich doesn’t give you a second to breathe. His hand stays glued to the stinging flesh, squeezing hard enough to feel the heat bloom under his fingers while his other hand slides between your slick thighs.
“Spread.” Flat. Commanding. No room for argument.
You don’t.
So he forces you anyway — two fingers pushing past your dripping folds, stretching you open with that terrifying precision, curling right against the soft, spongy spot that makes your vision spark white.
The second your hips jerk forward to escape, his fist locks into your hair and yanks you right back onto his lap like a leash.
“Already this wet?” A low, almost thoughtful hum leaves him as he pulls his fingers free.
A thick, glossy string of your slick stretches between your hole and his fingertip, catching the low light.
“Running again… but your pussy keeps begging me to stay.”
You try to snap something back — anything — but he’s already lining up. The flared, swollen head of his cock nudges against your entrance once, twice, then pushes in with one merciless slide that steals every word from your throat.
“F-fuck- Kinich-!”
He bottoms out in one smooth glide, stretching you wide around his thick length until you feel him pressing right against the entrance of your womb.
Buried deep, letting your walls flutter and clench desperately around him while his breath ghosts hot against the back of your neck.
“You keep running,” he says quietly, almost thoughtfully, as he pulls back just enough to slam in again. The wet slap of skin on skin is filthy.
“Every time I tell you to stay. Every time you look at me like you’re already gone.”
SMACK!
Your body jerks hard at the next spank, a broken cry ripping from your throat.
Before you can crawl away, his arm hooks around your waist and hauls you right back down onto his cock, pinning you flat to the slick floor. The woven texture bites into your tits and stomach as he forces you to take every brutal inch.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he growls low, the first real crack in that calm tone.
His hips snap forward harder, cockhead smacking mercilessly into your cunt with every precise thrust. “You’re not leaving Natlan. Not again.”
Smooth, deep rolls of his hips that drag his veiny length along every sensitive ridge inside you. Your voice climbs higher, cracking on whimpers you can’t swallow down.
Drool slips from the corner of your mouth onto the floor while your thighs shake violently.
“Kinich-! puhleaseeee- it’s too much—”
“It’s not.” Another punishing thrust. “You can take it. You will.”
His hand snakes underneath you, fingers finding your swollen clit.
He pinches and rolls merciless little circles that have your walls clamping down around his cock like a vice. Your whole body seizes, pussy gushing slick down his length as he keeps fucking you through it.
“Don’t know why- Ngh-,” he rasps against your neck, voice fraying at the edges now, breath coming shorter. “Y’kept leaving me. Why ya- won’t stay put. ”
"Th-that's not— ah— that's not your problem!-"
"You made it my problem." A thrust that punches the air clean out of you. “So I found a solution. Gonna fill this tight little cunt until you’re swollen with my kid. Then you won’t have a choice.”
The words hit you like lightning. Your mind blanks for a second– “Wai-what—”
His cock swirls deep.
Pushing deeeep, his fingers pick up pace on your clit, dragging you toward something you've been denying this whole time, your walls fluttering desperately, your voice climbing so high it cracks—“No!- t-that’s genuinely insane!”
"It isn’t." He held a small, satisfied smile.
"That’s not a solution, that’s literally—fuckkkk!"
But your body betrays you completely, cutting you off. Your walls flutter wildly around him, milking his cock as a devastating orgasm rips through you.
You came hard, screaming into the floor, tears streaming, thighs clamping shut around his hand while your pussy spasms and gushes.
Kinich groans low, the sound raw and animalistic, the first time that perfect hunter composure truly fractures.
His hips stutter once, twice, then he buries himself to the hilt with a sharp snap, pressing so deep you swear you feel him in your throat.
“HNGH!—”
Thick, hot ropes of cum flood your womb — pulse after heavy pulse, so much and so warm it spills out around his pulsing cock almost instantly, smearing sticky and obscene between your bodies.
Grinding deep through every wave, slow and deliberate, like he’s determined to push every drop as far inside you as physically possible.
His arm stays locked tight around your middle, tattooed bicep flexing against your stomach, holding you exactly where he wants you.
“…Your body thinks it’s a perfect solution,” he breathes against your sweat-damp neck, voice hoarse but still terrifyingly calm. “Stop fighting it.”
You’re still shaking, still fluttering around his spent cock, when the reality crashes back in.
Tears prick hot at the corners of your eyes as you try to twist away from him, voice cracking with raw upset.
“No,” you choke out, voice hoarse and furious even while your pussy keeps weakly clenching around him like it’s trying to keep every drop he just gave you.
“I’m not getting pregnant. I’m not letting you trap me like this— you can’t just- you can’t-”
He doesn’t pull out.
If anything, Kinich sinks a little deeper, grinding the head of his cock against your overfilled cervix like he’s sealing it. His lips brush the shell of your ear, calm as ever, but the grip on your waist tightens possessively.
“You already are,” he stares, almost fondly. “Or you will be. Soon.”
You pushed him off hard, “Like hell–”
.
.
🐊
A month later, the humid air inside the Scions of Canopys midwife’s hut feels too thick to breathe.
You’re sitting on the low mat, knees drawn tight together like that might somehow undo everything, while the older woman hums softly and presses careful fingers along your lower belly.
Nausea still clings to the back of your throat. Your breasts ache. Certain smells make you want to retch.
You already know what she’s going to say.
Your captor behind you like a silent sentinel — arms loosely crossed, green-gold eyes half-lidded but missing nothing.
The midwife finally sits back on her heels, expression unreadable for a long beat.
“Congratulations! You're expecting,” she says, no question in her voice, your stomach dropping.
“It seems you're a month along, oh! The baby is healthy…you would be due…”
As the midwife drones on and on, pointing at the chart, you craned your head to glare at Kinich meeting his expectant gaze.
His expression, for once, was readable, and it only conveyed one thing:
‘You can deny it all you want, you’re stuck.’
🐊 LOHEN — Denial is a river
“LOHEN LET ME DOWN—YOU DONE LOST YO MIND.”
You thrashed wildly, hanging upside down from the thick rope coiled tight around your ankle.
The world swayed in sickening circles, blood rushing straight to your head while your own heartbeat hammered in your ears.
Dignity? Gone. Long gone.
Meanwhile, Lohen was losing his shit.
Full-body, stomach-clenching laughter poured out of him as he bent over, one hand braced on his knee, as if he might actually collapse from how hilarious you were.
Red eyes squinted with pure delight, tears pricking at the corners while he wheezed.
“HA- holy shit!-” He dragged in a gasping breath, still grinning like a maniac. “You really walked straight into that one. Fuck, you’re adorable.~”
He finally straightened up and stalked closer, head tilted as he studied your flushed, upside-down face.
That manic little smile curled slowly and hungrily across his lips, one that promised nothing good.
“You actually thought you could escape me?” he cooed, voice dripping with fake sympathy. “Cute. Real cute.”
You glared hard enough to burn holes through him.
Lohen only stepped even closer, until he was right in front of your swaying body.
Two fingers reached out and squished your cheeks together like you were some grumpy little creature he’d caught.
“Look at that face,~” he sang, eyes sparkling with pure unhinged joy.
You jerked your head and sank your teeth into his thumb — hard.
A low, genuine, filthy sound punched straight out of his chest. His eyes fluttered, lashes kissing his cheeks.
You pulled back, staring at him in pure disgust and disbelief.
He stared right back, looking almost surprised at himself for half a second… before that wild grin crawled back onto his face, twice as wide.
“Fuck I think I just came a bit…Do that again.”
This fucking freak
His hand finds your face again - cradles it, almost, which was somehow more unsettling than if he'd gripped it.
Thumb pressing into your cheek while your head kept spinning, and the rope creaked above you.
“You’re turning such a pretty shade.~” voice soft and sweet like poison. “Wow, are ya really that happy I’m touching you?”
“YOU PSYCHOTIC LITTLE—”
“Mhm,” Lohen cut you off smoothly, not even listening. His eyes dragged over you slowly and warmly, completely shameless. “Most people would’ve seen the rope, y’know,” he said, like you weren’t literally hanging upside down from his trap.
“Well, most people aren’t being fucking hunted-”
“Nope.” His thumb traced the line of your jaw, gentle and obsessive all at once.
“Just you… ‘cause iiiii loooove yooouuu.~” He drew the words out in that obnoxious, singsong way that made your skin crawl and your stomach flip at the same time.
You rolled your eyes so hard it made you dizzy.
Lohen hummed, tilting his head as he watched you sway.
That dangerous little smile never left his face while he tapped one finger against his chin like he was thinking.
“Now~” he purred, smirk widening with wicked promise.
“How should we fix that nasty little attitude of yours…?”
Fuck
.
.
🐊
“Cmon what are ya waitingggg forrr?”
You’re straddling him, completely humiliated, his thick cock buried to the hilt inside you while he lounges back like he doesn’t have a single care in the world.
Hands tucked lazily behind his head, mint-green hair splayed wild across the grass, that damn beauty mark crinkling as he grins up at you with pure psychotic delight.
You’re not moving.
Not one fucking inch, half out of overstimulation, half out of pure spite.
SMACK!
His palm cracks hard across your ass, the sharp sting making you jerk upward with a broken yelp.
The sudden movement drags your dripping walls along every veiny inch of him, Lohen moaning loud and shameless beneath you, biting his lips like he just tasted heaven.
“There ya gooo~” he coos, voice syrupy sweet with fake innocence. “See? Wasn’t so hard, was it?”
“I fuckin’ hate you—”
“Yeah, yeah,” he laughs, low and wheezy, eyes sparkling as he tracks every furious twitch on your face. “You gonna move properly, or do I gotta smack that pretty ass red again?”
You barely move.
Slow. Grudging.
The most resentful little roll of your hips that’s ever existed.
Throwing his head back he bursts into loud, unhinged laughter. “HAHAAH— fuck, look at you! So madddd~ So fucking upset and still creaming all over my cock.”
“Are you deadass right now-? Of course I’m mad-!”
“Faster.”
“What—?”
“Faster,” he repeats helpfully, tilting his head with that manic little grin. “You’re going reeeaaally slow, baby. My dick’s getting bored.”
You’re going to kill him.
Fuck it.
You’re going to cum and then kill him.
But your cunt says otherwise, pussy fluttering and sucking greedily around his thick length, no matter how much you glare at him.
Lohen’s eyes darken with hungry delight. He suddenly sits up, arms wrapping around your waist like steel bands, yanking you down flush against his chest.
Shaft grinding deep, bullying right against that spongy spot inside you that makes your vision spark white.
“F—fuck,” he hisses through clenched teeth, that primal edge slipping into his voice. “One more, yeah? Just one more f'me, pretty thing.”
“Lohen, you’ve said that,” You batted your eyes, fighting the pleasure, “-for hours, lemme go!”
“Mmm, doesn’t sound like an answer,” he purrs, rolling his hips up in a filthy, precise way that makes your toes curl. “Doesn’t sound like you’re saying no to me.”
He doesn’t even wait for your reply.
His forearms hook under your thighs, spreading you wide open like a ragdoll as he starts rutting up into you harder.
Wet, sloppy sounds fill the air with every thrust — squelch-squelch-squelch — his cockhead kissing your cervix over and over like he’s trying to knock right through it.
“Hm? Hah- mmph!, seems like someone agrees with me.~” he laughs breathlessly against your ear, nipping at the shell with sharp teeth. “Your pussy’s the one begging for more. Greedy little thing keeps gulping me down like she never wants me to leave.~”
You try to squirm, try to plant your feet and lift off him even a little, but Lohen just tightens his grip and fucks up into you even meaner, bouncing you on his cock like you weigh nothing.
“Hahhh?? Running again~?” he tuts, voice mockingly sweet. “Nahhh, we still got s’much more rounds to go, baby. Five? Or is it six? I lost count already.”
Your mind was blanking out; you've been doing this for so long, you couldn’t even form coherent sentences. “Fuh- no- mgh- I’m d-done!”
"Your pussy's not done~."
“My- p-puhssy–! Don’t getta vote!” You shatter instantly — eyes rolling back, a broken scream ripping out of you as your sixth orgasm crashes through your exhausted body.
Lohen screams loudly while your walls milk him tight, but he doesn’t stop.
“Ohh-Fuck fuck fuck! Here’s ah!- another one, baby!-” Cumming hard with you, filling you up - he keeps thrusting through your high, chasing every last flutter like a man possessed.
Thick, hot ropes of cum flooding your already overstuffed cunt. Grinding deeper, chasing every last flutter like a man completely possessed.
“Mmm—hah, there it is,~” he moans happily, beauty mark crinkling as he grins against your sweat-slick neck. Mint-green hair sticks to his forehead, messy and wild. “Good girl. That wasn’t for you, though~ That was all for this pretty pussy of mine.”
You’re sobbing now, chest heaving, body twitching uncontrollably in his lap. But Lohen just keeps bouncing you on his still-hard cock, slow and filthy, like he could do this forever.
“And she’s telling me…” he drawls, voice sing-song dropping into something darker, more dangerous, lips brushing your ear, “that you can handle three more.♡”
You flop forward against his chest, boneless and whimpering, barely able to hold yourself up. “A-asshole… h-hate you…”
Lohen’s manic laughter rings in your ear as he flips you onto your back in one smooth motion, never once letting his cock slip out of your spasming heat.
“Keep fighting it, baby. Keep telling me how much you hate me.” He leans down, eyes glowing with lovesick affection as he starts pounding you into the grass. “Makes my dick so fucking hard when you lie like that.”
You cry out, nails raking down his back as he folds you nearly in half, knees pressed to your chest.
Every thrust is loud, messy, obscene — the constant squelch of his cum being fucked deeper into you, the slap of skin, your broken sobs mixing with his breathless laughter.
“Look at her,” he coos, glancing down between your bodies where his cock disappears into your puffy, cream-filled pussy. “Still sucking me in so hungrily. Seems like she doesn’t wanna let go, does she?”
“Stop- I can’t-!!”
“You can,” he laughs softly, leaning down to bite your bottom lip. “And you will. ‘Cause every time you say you’re done… this cute cunt just begs for more.”
Picking up speed, pounding you into the grass with relentless, mind-melting strokes. Staring straight into your tear-filled eyes, beauty mark crinkling with that same unhinged grin.
“Three more, f’me baby. Then maybe- maybe I’ll let ya rest.~” His hands push your legs up to your head, angling deeper, making your eyes roll.
“Or maybe I’ll just keep going until you forget how to say the word ‘no’ at all.~”
🐊 LYNEY — Hole dirtier than laundry!
You're so sure you're going to fucking suffocate at this rate.
Lyney’s perched on your face like he weighs nothing, knees planted on either side of your head in the middle of his messy bed, sheets already twisted and half-pulled off the mattress.
That skimpy little lingerie set he’d been hiding under his coat all evening still clinging to his slender frame—purple lace stretched taut over his flushed cock, the thin strap of the thong shoved to the side so his pretty, leaking hole could sit right against your mouth.
The fabric’s soaked through already and so is he.
He’d wanted this for weeks.
The filthy thought had lived rent-free in that pretty head of his ever since the first time you turned your face away from his goodnight kiss.
Then again, when you shoved his hand off your waist.
Then again, when you told him to “fuck off” like it was nothing.
Every denial made it worse.
He got nervous—actually nervous—thinking you’d hate it.
That you’d push him off and call him disgusting for wanting something so selfish, so greedy.
But tonight you’d denied him one too many times, pushed him away with that same cold little glare, and this was the perfect excuse.
Discipline
Clean. Simple.
He could finally do it and blame you for making him snap.
Except he's the one losing his breath — soft, shaky exhales spilling from those painted lips every time your tongue brushes against his rim. That carefully constructed composure dissolves, piece by piece, every time you move beneath him.
“Mmmh—!” He grinds down harder, your hands flailing against his thighs, nails digging into lace and soft skin. “Cat got your tongue, mon amour~?”
His voice is all theatrical breathiness, that signature charm cracking at the edges.
Shifting his weight just enough for you to gasp in a desperate breath, only to sink back down again — ass firmly planted on your face, rolling his hips in slow, filthy circles.
The wet heat of his hole drags over your lips, your tongue, smearing slick and lube everywhere.
The sound Lyney makes when you're forced to lick him is loud enough that the entire wing's probably filing a noise complaint right now.
Ash-blond hair with that tiny braid falls messily around his face, violet eyes fluttering shut, cat-like pupils blown wide.
“F-fuck… just like- that!—ngh!”
His slender fingers fist the sheets above your head, hips twitching every time your tongue pushes inside.
“D-didn’t think you’d be so… eager to clean me up after all those- ah! Nasty words you threw at me this week. You sure you didn’t want this?~”
He laughs breathless, a little unhinged—and the sound melts into another whimper when you suck on his rim trying to get air.
The lingerie thong keeps slipping back into place, and he has to keep tugging it aside with shaky fingers, the lace now completely drenched.
"Haah — look at you. Flailing around.~" Another slow grind, deliberate and mean, his cock twitching hard against the lace as it leaks onto his stomach. "But you're not pushing me off, are you? No… you're licking deeper. Mmph!~."
You thrash hard, punching at his thighs, trying to get this sick man off your face. He either mistakes it for enthusiasm or simply doesn't care — the effect is the same.
His thighs shake harder, athletic muscles flexing as he rides your tongue with more urgency. That guarded side is completely gone.
Replaced by something rawer.
The need to be wanted so badly that it overrides everything else.
"Keep going, mon amour," he pants, voice pitching higher, "because if you stop — hngh — I swear I'll sit here until morning. Until you forget every nasty word you said to me… and only remember this."
His fingers thread into your hair, tugging just enough to tilt your face exactly where he wants it.
Not until he’s satisfied. Not until you’re his again—completely.
He can feel it building — hot, coiling, dangerous. And he refuses to finish like this, not when he hasn't taken everything.
With a shaky laugh that doesn't quite hide the edge beneath it, Lyney finally lifts off your face — justttt enough for you to drag in a ragged breath, spit and slick smeared across your lips.
Lungs burning as you try to speak—“Lyney, wait—” and before you can get a single word out-
His cock impales your mouth in one smooth thrust—thick, leaking, stretching your lips wide around the base of his shaft.
You choke instantly, eyes watering, the sudden fullness reducing every word you had to a wet gluck-gluck-gluck.
His thighs lock firmly beside your head. "Mmmph — there we go." He rocks into your throat with shallow, greedy thrusts, voice dropping as his face disappears between your thighs. "That's it. Let me feel how sorry you are."
Leaning down his tongue is immediate and merciless — lapping, sucking, flicking over your clit with a precision that feels almost unfair.
One hand grips your thigh hard enough to bruise. The other presses flat against your stomach, pinning you exactly where he wants you.
You push at his hips, a muffled protest vibrating around his length — he just rolls deeper, unhurried, his cock fucks your mouth in the same rhythm.
The room echoes with the wet sounds of him thrusting into your throat, mixed with the slurps of his mouth on your cunt.
"Don't- fight it, mon amour," he groans against your spreaded folds, the words vibrating straight into your core. "You don't get to push me away anymore. Not after all those mean words."
He sucks hard on your clit, hips stuttering as he holds back his own orgasm. "Not after telling me to leave like I'm nothing."
The lace thong is still tangled around his balls, rubbing against the bridge of your nose with every shallow thrust. His tongue curls, teasing your entrance before plunging inside—matching the way his cock bullies the back of your throat.
Your moans of reluctant protest are drowned out by his cock, completely overstimulated by how much of him you're feeling at once.
Every thrust pushes him deeper, every swirl of his tongue makes your legs shake. Whimpering into your cunt, the sound vibrating through you, but the words that slip out between licks are pure silk-wrapped venom.
"If I have to do this every night until you stop denying me—" A sharp suck on your clit. "—then I will."
His cock throbs heavily on your tongue. "I'll keep you right here. Until the only thing you know how to do is stay."
You try to pull off—hands slapping at his hips, a broken sob ripping from your throat around his shaft—but he just angles deeper.
The filthy gluck-gluck-gluck of him fucking your mouth fills your brain, your eyes streaming tears that mix with the spit dripping down your chin.
And he doesn’t stop, tongue lashes harder between your folds, sucking your clit into his mouth with a lewd pop! before flattening it again.
Mean. Possessive. Trying to pull your orgasm out by force.
Your thighs shake around his head, hips jerking up involuntarily as the pressure coils tighter-too much, too fast, too-
You cum with a shattered cry that vibrates straight down his cock.
Creamy slick gushes over his tongue, thighs clamping around his ears, and Lyney moans like he’s the one breaking. Holding himself right there on the edge—cock twitching wildly in your throat—until your walls start fluttering hard.
“F-fuck—ngh, that’s it—give it to me-”
His cock pulses hard on your tongue, swelling thicker, and then he’s cumming too.
Rope after rope shoots straight down your throat, thick and hot, until you’re choking on it, coughing up his seed around the length still buried between your lips.
He doesn’t pull out. Just keeps shallow-thrusting through it, forcing you to swallow every drop while he drinks you down like he’s dying of thirst.
The room spins. Your lungs burn. Tears won’t stop. While Lyney stays there a second longer, chest heaving, hips still twitching with the aftershocks.
Panting, he eased cock from your mouth with a slurp!
Strings of cum and spit connect your swollen lips to his tip. Lyney watches it break with half-lidded violet eyes, his cheek flushed red.
You’re still sobbing softly, chest heaving, when he finally flips around. He curls over you, pressing soft kisses to your tear-streaked cheeks, your trembling lips, like he didn’t just fuck your face and sit on you for "punishment".
“Shhh… mon amour,” he whispers, voice sweet as sugar, thumb brushing your bottom lip. “See? Wasn’t so bad. You took me so well… my perfect little assistant.”
Lyney's fingers thread back into your hair, holding you there as he nuzzles against your neck.
“You’re not going anywhere tonight.” A soft, theatrical little laugh brushes your ear.
“Or tomorrow.”
He kisses the corner of your mouth, tasting himself on you.
“Or ever.”
🐊 XIAO — Bite first. Regret later
BAM!
"I'm leaving- ” The wall meets your back before you finish the sentence. “-Xiao. I mean it this–"
The impact rattled your teeth, your breath was punched clean out of your lungs, he was just across the room, teleporting in a haze of green and black, shoving you against the wall.
Another sharp gasp to follow when Xiao drove into you again, deeper, meaner, like he was trying to carve his place inside you permanently.
This is the problem.
This has always been the problem.
He doesn't talk to you, doesn't tell you he needs you, doesn't acknowledge what this even is, what you are to him — just pulls you close when it gets too heavy and expects that to be enough.
Weeks of silence.
Weeks of watching him look straight through you like you're something precious he refuses to name because naming it would make it real, and real things can be taken away.
You're exhausted.
Your legs stayed locked tight around his narrow waist, thighs trembling violently.
"I—" You push at his shoulders. He doesn't move. "Stop. I said I'm leaving—"
The only thing keeping you from sliding down the wall was his iron grip on your ass, fingers imprinting in so deep you knew they’d leave bruises shaped like his hands for days.
Xiao doesn’t respond, no words, or explanation — just eyes burning with determined focus
The tattoo on his arm bleeds green into the dark.
"Let me go." Flat. Furious. You dig your nails in hard. "I- ah! Mean it! I'm n-not doing this anymore, I can't keep– pretending-!"
He looks at you.
Amber eyes completely unguarded for once — staring at you like you've already got one foot out the door and he's watching it happen and he still, still cannot make himself say the words that would fix it. Jaw locked tight, breathing ragged.
Hitting that little spot inside you, your whole argument stutters. "That's not—"
You try to hold onto the thread of it. "That's not good enough, you can't just — this doesn't fix anything—"
He drives deeper. Your back hits the wall harder.
"Xiao!"
Nothing.
Just that devastating eye contact and the brutal, relentless pace of him, he's decided if he can't say it, he'll just make you feel it instead.
Your nails rake down his arms. "Oh-! This is- fuck! Insane. Shit! Your hurtin!- You can't keep doing this and expect me to stay!-" You twist, trying to get leverage.
His hand wraps around your throat, forehead dropping to yours, eyes closing, and he stays there breathing hard while his hips find a slower, deeper angle that makes your vision dissolve at the edges.
The weight of his karmic debt presses down on the room like a physical thing. Ozone and something older, darker, filling your lungs with every breath.
You're furious, shaking, and overwhelmed.
But believe it or not, he was terrified of hurting you.
And yet he couldn’t stop.
"Shit, what do you want from me!?"
Instead of answering, he just bites down on your throat instead. Sharp. Claiming. So suddenly, your whole body arches into him against every intention you had.
A broken sound tears out of you—high and pathetic—and you immediately hate yourself for letting it slip.
Teeth sinking in harder, not enough to break skin but enough to mark, enough to own, and your cunt clenches around him so violently it makes him stutter.
Yanking you up higher, forcing your back to scrape against the wall, making you cry out in pain- as he drives in deeper.
The anger frays at the edges where the pleasure keeps burning straight through—white-hot and unforgiving.
“I h-hate you-” you gasp. Not true. Completely not true, and you both know it.
“You’re so—” Another broken moan cuts you off, raw and humiliating. “Infuriating.”
He makes a sound against your neck. Low. Pained. Even that tiny admission costs him something precious.
Still nothing.
You’re crying now—angry tears spilling hot and fast down your face, your body betraying you completely as he drives you up the wall again and again.
Each thrust shoves you higher toward something you don’t want to give him.
“Please,” you break, hating how small and wrecked it comes out. “Please just say it. Tell me you need me. Tell me I’m—that I’m yours, that this means something, that you’re not just going to let me disappear one day and feel nothing—” His entire body goes rigid.
Exhaling, his hand slides from your throat to cradle the back of your head.
His forehead presses so hard to yours it almost hurts, eyes squeezed shut, hips grinding deep and slow and devastatingly deliberate now.
Every roll of his hips drags his cock against that spot inside you that makes your toes curl and your vision spark white.
He still doesn’t say it, waiting for you to say exactly what he wants to hear.
Xiao pulls you in so tight you can’t tell where he ends, and you begin anymore. Your breast presses hard against his chest, breath coming in short gasps from how tight he’s holding you, bruises already beginning to bloom.
Maybe...
“I’m staying,” you whisper, defeated, wrecked, voice cracking on every syllable. “I-i’m yours. I’m not leaving. Just—don’t let go.”
The sound he makes is quiet.
Devastated and relieved in a way that breaks your heart a little. He comes with his face buried in your neck, shaking hard, one arm locked around your waist like even now he doesn’t trust you won’t vanish.
Thick, hot ropes of cum flood you—spurt after spurt—while his teeth stay sunk into your throat, muffling the broken groan that vibrates against your skin.
He keeps rolling through it, slow and possessive, making sure every drop stays deep inside you.
Afterward, the room is just breathing. Heavy. Sticky. Charged. Then, so quiet it barely exists:
“…Again.”
Not another round, you know that.
He wants to hear it again—the words he can’t say himself, confirmed in your voice, real and present and not leaving.
“I’m yours, Xiao.” You press your lips to his temple, voice hoarse and trembling. “I’m staying.”
His grip tightens instantly. Fingers digging back into your ass, cock still buried to the hilt and twitching inside you like it’s trying to root there forever.
Xiao still doesn’t say it back; you already know how he feels.
The dark, suffocating truth that settles in the quiet—in the iron grip of his arms and the door you both know he’d never let you reach—is that staying was never really your choice to make.
It stopped being your choice a long time ago.
…Some sick, exhausted piece of you doesn’t even want the choice anymore.
𝄞. S: self-care days don’t really feel so… solo anymore
bf!luke x aphrodite!fem!reader fluff drabble wc: 382
warnings: nothing i would think just established bf!luke
At this point, any self-care days were not spent by yourself.
As a daughter of Aphrodite, maybe you had abilities granted by your mother—something beauty related, and Luke used to his advantage!
Outside of cabin ten, Luke Castellan was different. He had titles—labels.
Head counsellor of cabin eleven, one of the best swordsmen to live along with other titles that developed overtime randomly.
Though inside cabin ten, to Luke it felt like he could rest. The smell of sweet perfume and fresh bedsheets was something completely different compared to cabin eleven which honestly—smelt like feet ninety nine percent of the time.
Due to the overcrowding, dealing with the Hermes cabin was exhausting to control.
So, every second Sunday after a long day of training, you’d change into comfortable clothes with your hair up and sit in the seat of your vanity with different skincares and a variety of face mask options flooding the desk.
A nice cinnamon and vanilla candle burning on your bedside table.
And guess who would be to your left, laying on your bed in the middle where your countless plushies nearly suffocating him.
If you put on a hello kitty face mask paired with pink slippers, Luke would be a mirror.
“Luke, stop touching your face!” You slap his hands away from his face though you notice them itching to touch his face once more.
“It’s sticky.” Luke furrowed his eyebrows.
You raised an eyebrow. “Babe, I would think so. It’s moisturiser, you have to let it sit for a second or else it’s going to wipe off.” You reached over, grabbing his face and rubbing the cream back in evenly.
“Hm.” He mumbled under his breath, eyes scanning your face while you’re up close, noticing how your eyebrows knitted together when focusing.
Luke really tried to memorise every product and its purpose. Unfortunately, it was not his strength.
Though it never stopped him trying to steal repurchase the skincare items you used whenever they ran out every time he sneaked out of camp.
Your self-care days were not only, well, relaxing, peaceful, the epitome of serenity… they were educational in a way.
And with your knowledge, no wonder why the rest of your siblings walk up to Luke in the middle of training asking how he achieved such clear and smooth skin.
masterlist
hey… long time no see. i wanted to write something so here’s a very short drabble. i know i should do something more but my mind is absolutely blank. so much has happened and changed since my last fic </3
if this is absolute dog shit we can pretend i never wrote it! its past midnight so ill blame it on that
warning: best friend!luke castellan x reader, fem!reader implied (one mention of male-female friendship), fluff <3
In which he'll wait, he's already been waiting for a while anyway
˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗
The fresh breeze was a relief for everyone as it swept through the stone stands of the arena, a short exhale in the heavy summer. Your arm was starting to get sore after minutes of fanning yourself, even the shadow of the oak you’d found shelter under not enough to shield you from the heat.
“You’re staring,” Silena said, simply stating it without even looking up from braiding her hair.
“What? I’m n-”
She cut you off quickly, not leaving room for denial. “You’re staring.”
“Ok, I’m staring, so what? I don’t think I even have to justify myself for watching greatest-swordsman-in-300-years fight when it’s basically a lesson on good swordsmanship,” you replied in one breath, turning to Silena and tearing your eyes from Luke’s figure, still fighting some Ares kid down in the pit.
Your friend couldn’t hold in a small chuckle. “Then why are you justifying yourself?”
You tilted your head in mild annoyance, rolling your eyes. “Because you know I don’t like what you’re implying.”
“Me? Imply something related to your oh so dear friend Luke Castellan? Never,” she mocked with a giggle she didn’t bother hold in.
“Whatever, I hate you.”
Silena simply shoved your shoulder playfully, rolling her eyes as you suddenly made a show of focusing on anything but your friend at the center of the arena.
Somehow, this one rumor in particular had a way of surviving through the months you’d never encountered in noise like this, everyone suddenly in on a conversation that didn’t have any foundation. Luke was a friend, a good friend at that, the first face you’d seen on your first night at camp, when you’d made it to the other side of the hill under the rain and had eventually slipped on a chunk of muddy dirt.
He’d run your way from the porch of the Big House, some other guy loudly informing him he’d get ‘so freaking wet, it’s raining dude!’ But he’d just made his way to you, nearly slipping in the process too before offering help to get up. You were shaking both from the chill and the fear—just discovering monsters are real, gods too…the whole shabang—, and all the boy had found to say was,
“Don’t worry, I promise camp doesn’t look as depressing when Mr. D is actually on premises.”
And you’d barely understood the meaning of what he’d said, and he didn’t look entirely truthful about it, but the whole situation had felt so singular you’d just laughed, and he’d joined in, laughing in relief under the rain.
Weirdly enough, he’d kept you around since you arrived over a year and a half ago, almost inseparable, although less in a glued-by-the-hip way and more like a pull making sure you always ended up in the same place at the same time. You didn’t do it purposefully, it just happened. You would end up on the same log during campfire, and he’d silently pass you a marshmallow he’d just cooked while the Apollo kids turned the flames green. On the first nights, the ones where the nightmares would leave you restless in cabin 10, he would coincidentally join you on the porch with a spare blanket.
And even now almost two years later, you two still hung out like it was the most natural thing in the world.
But people… people love drama, even more in such a small community like camp Half-Blood was, people crave entertainment, and you and Luke found yourself on campers’ lips a little more than you like. Apparently, man-woman friendship was alright when it was Silena and Connor, but when it came to you and Luke it was unfathomable.
And even if the rumors could have made you question it, you’d just never envisioned him like that. Luke was… a force of nature—best swordsman in 300 years, what more do you need? He was the center of conversations even when he wasn’t there; he was kind to everyone and smart in a way that challenged even some children of Athena; he could just smile and people would stop whatever they were doing to help him with anything. Golden boy, they called him, and you could totally see it.
Honestly, you never really considered anything could happen that went further than friendship. Sure, he was kind with you, but so was he with everyone else, and he hung out a lot with you, but as friends do. And maybe he was nice to look at—especially on a very hot day of august when he was training in the arena—, but it wasn’t exactly as much an original thought as it was an observation pretty much everyone made.
So yes, rumors didn’t die easily, but it didn’t make them any more true, you just ignored them.
You’d eventually left the arena a little after that moment, starting to get annoyed by Silena’s nagging, and Lee had caught you apparently just in time to “help” him reorganize a part of the infirmary cabinets that had been left in a disastrous state after the last game of Capture the Flag. He’d coincidentally remembered he had some prior commitment the second you’d stepped foot into the infirmary, stretching out a sorry as he’d escaped through the door when you discovered a new meaning to the word ‘disastrous’.
Safe to say you’d been stuck cleaning up and sorting through supplies for over half an hour now. At least the room was fairly cooler than outside, a few rays of sun shining behind sheer curtains still lighting up the space.
You were rolling back into place some bandages when you heard a soft knock on the door not too far, and a few footsteps pressing on the creaky floorboards.
“Sorry, Lee is out…somewhere,” you called out distractedly, your focus on the roll of bandage you were still fighting to get right.
But the footsteps didn’t halt, and as you meant to turn around when nobody answered, you felt two hands suddenly land on your shoulders, physically startling you.
“Booh!”
You let out a complementary yelp, finally turning around and shoving the intruder. “You f- Oh gods- You piece of shit! You absolute fucker!”
“Come on, give me a third one, I know you want it,” Luke taunted, egging you on and not even trying to hold in his laugh.
You, on the other hand, were fuming, the bandage laying tangled on the floor again. “You… You’re so-”
“Charming? Hilarious? Thanks, means a lot from you.”
“Infuriating!” you exclaimed, shoving his chest again. You let out a long exhale as Luke couldn’t stop laughing loudly, the sound so contagious you had to fight to keep looking upset. “What are you even doing here, you unemployed clown?”
The boy’s laugh eventually dying down as he slumped back on a nearby infirmary bed. “I’m hiding from responsibilities.”
“Yup, just like I said, unemployed clown,” you mumbled, rolling your eyes as you crouched to get the supplies back from the floor and turned your back to him.
“Hah, very funny,” he replied dryly. Luke sat up, the sheets rustling underneath him. “And I assume you must be very busy to be calling me unemployed.”
You sighed, a sarcastic laugh bubbling up your throat. “Well, it so happens that I got roped into this shitshow to reorganize everything by a Lee Fletcher that fled the scene.”
“So you’re busy.”
“So I’m busy.”
Silence stretched out in the room for a short moment, easy and familiar as you kept yourself occupied to try and ignore his gaze piercing through the back of your head.
“Mind if I hang around?” Luke said simply, and you could hear him get comfortable on the bed before you even answered.
“Sure, whatever you want ‘golden boy.’”
Luke winced at the name. “Ew, I told you to not ever call me that again.”
“Exactly why I continue,” you quipped back with a smile, storing the now rolled up bandage into the dedicated cabinet.
Luke got off the bed, slowly walking your way, hands in his pockets. “Well, just so you know, I saw Fletcher go to the beach with Katie and a few others just earlier, pretty sure you’re cleaning up this room all alone.”
You almost gasped. “Oh I’m gonna fuck him up.”
“No doubt about it.”
“I think his elbow is gonna end up in his forehead this time, sing your way out of this one, Fletcher,” you whispered conspiratorially under your breath, and your friend couldn’t help the way his eyebrows scrunched in mild concern.
“Sure…” Luke dragged a chair from a corner of the room to come and sit near you, laying his arms on the back of it nonchalantly.
For a couple minutes, he just watched you in silence as you reorganized stuff in the cabinets, checking the labels on some pill bottles, tightly screwing back on some loose ambrosia jars—cleaning up Lee’s mess. And you could feel once again his gaze, warm feeling on the side of your face.
“You’re staring,” you stated, the way Silena had done earlier in the day, your voice soft and unconcerned.
Luke’s voice sounded just as unconcerned. “I don’t mind. Do you?”
“I guess not.” For some reason, you felt slightly taken aback by the bluntness of his words. But he was right, it wasn’t much. “Oh, Katie asked me about you during breakfast, forgot to tell you.”
The boy hummed, unimpressed, his focus not wavering as you kept rolling up another set of gauze. “What did she want?”
“I don’t know, dude. She just asked if you were seeing someone.”
That for sure got his attention, eyes widening slightly as his brows furrowed. “And what did you say?” Luke said almost tentatively, trying to sound detached but failing miserably.
You gave him a suspicious look, the sudden change in his tone surprising. “Just told her you were too married to your duties to date anyone, even though you seem pretty unoccupied to me right now…” you added with a scoff. “But I mean, you got, like, dozens of kids to wrangle every day, that’s probably job enough.”
Luke let out a soft laugh, letting his head rest on his arms, looking at you still sitting on the floor wrestling the gauze rolls. “That’s what you think?”
“I mean yeah, you’re probably the busiest person around here… at least definitely more than Mr. D.”
“Can hardly do less than Mr. D,” Luke added with a smile.
“Sure, but I mean it, like, you’re always running around camp for one reason or another, sounds busy to me,” you continued, getting up to store the gauze back in their original place.
“Yeah, yeah,” the boy agreed, leaning back away from the back of the chair. “But you think if I could make room for free time I still couldn’t date?”
“Oh please, I’m not answering this just to fuel your pathetic male ego,” you teased back, rolling your eyes as you got small storage bins full of band aids out of the cabinet, setting them on the nearby counter to reorganize them. You turned around to get something and your gaze crossed Luke’s, seemingly so entirely focused on you it was disarming, your heart skipping a beat for a reason you didn’t want to dwell on.
He tilted his head, his hair catching a single ray of sun that had made it through a gap in the curtains, and your pulse jumped. “Humor me.”
You rolled your eyes again with a groan, turning back around to the counter to hide your confusion. “Come on, what am I supposed to say? You’re the one who doesn’t even try to make the time even when you could clearly get anyone around this place and you know it.”
“And why do you think that is?”
The question landed weirdly, somehow soft, somehow too blunt. You halted in your task, hand hanging mid air over the storage bins, and turned your head to look at him over your shoulder with confusion written all over your face again.
He didn’t seem like he was joking, at least not entirely, his usual easy grin not coming off but his eyes conveying something else.
You cleared your throat silently. “I don’t know, I’m not in your head, you tell me.”
You tilted your head to the side as Luke slowly got off his chair, his steps slow and efficient as he walked your way, stopping way too close to seem casual if anyone were to walk in. But Luke never really seemed to have any issue invading your space since day one, you’d gotten used to it over time.
“Well, maybe I have been,” he said. “Telling you. For a while.”
Your brain stuttered. “What?”
The boy reached behind you on the counter, taking one of the small bins and putting it back inside the cabinet where it belonged, bringing his neck right in your face doing so, before pulling back an inch. His eyes bore right into yours, and you had to look slightly up from how close he was, his smell suddenly filling your senses.
“You know, for someone so smart, you can be really dense,” Luke said in a voice so suddenly low you felt heat rush to your cheeks.
There was a short silence between you two, a couple second that felt almost like a lifetime had passed, before you coughed awkwardly and walked around him to escape the way he was almost caging you.
“Okay, Peter Kavinsky,” was all you found to say, trying to laugh off the sudden heavy vibe in the room as you walked to get something from a table further away.
Except Luke was quicker, his hand jumping out to grab your wrist and hold you back.
“See? Dense.” Luke let out a soft sigh. ”You just always react like that, you’re lucky-”
Luke gave your wrist a small tug, suddenly bringing you back closer. “Wha-”
“-you look cute even when you play dumb,” he continued, cutting your train off thoughts instantly.
“-t do you m….” Your voice died halfway through, looking up at a Luke who’s eyes carried a fondness you’d never have expected to find there.
The air was suddenly crackling with a new energy—or maybe you’d just never picked up on it before—, and you realized just how close you two were. The room was dimly lit, a soft breeze rustling through the thin curtains, and the world seemed to tilt slightly on its axis for a moment.
“Are you…” you tried to start, but Luke tilted his head, just a little, and your mind blanked for a second. His eyes held a glint of amusement, urging you to continue even as he could see the confusion behind your eyes. “Are you trying to flirt with me right now?”
Your friend’s brows shot up at the bluntness of your question, letting out a single burst of laugh in disbelief. “Well, I have been for the past year, but thank you for noticing,” he simply stated, your face falling noticeably while he just held his easy smile like he was talking about the weather and not—not this.
“Past- Past year!” You weakly slapped his shoulder, your expression somewhat serious and mostly confused, and he just laughed. “Don’t joke about that, it’s not funny,” you exclaimed, your voice suddenly pitching up.
Luke finally let go of your wrist. “I’m not joking, ask Travis.”
“Travis thinks someone looking at him is flirting.”
“Fine, ask Clarisse. Even she sees it.”
“I-” Man-hating Clarisse was blind to anything feelings-related. Had it been true or not, she never would’ve given enough care to see anything…right? “You’re lying.”
“Come on,” he groaned, rolling his eyes with a smile still plastered on his face, not at all deterred. “I literally spend as much time as I can with you, sit with you every campfire, seek you out in every room.”
You nodded, looking up at him. “Yeah, I mean you’re my best friend, I want to spend most of my time with you too.”
“Why are you-” Luke let out a soft sigh, lowering his head as his free hand reached up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “Why are you deflecting all of what I say?”
Your tongue poked the inside of your cheek, avoiding his gaze but not moving away from his touch, the feeling usual—again, Luke had never been big on personal space, with you at least—yet somehow intimate now. “Because it doesn’t make sense.”
Luke’s easy grin faltered for a second, his jaw clenching as his hand slid through your hair softly, like he was used to doing when you had trouble falling asleep. “What doesn’t make sense? I mean, it’s all staring you pretty much right in the face,” the boy quipped, pointing at himself and suppressing a self-deprecating laugh when you raised an unimpressed brow. “I mean everything I’ve said: all the compliments you brushed off, all the promises I’ve made, every look your way… And I think I just… I needed you to at least know?”
The boy hesitated, taking in a deep breath and fully letting go of you, although his smile was still right in place, still playful. “I mean, I get it, you probably never saw me as more than a friend-”
“I never did.” You didn’t even know why you’d cut him off, you’d just reacted on instinct, something urging you to correct him at the back of your mind. Confusion glazed over Luke’s eyes, his eyebrows furrowed, and you wanted to smack yourself at the tactlessness. “I mean, I-” You groaned in frustration, searching for the right words when your heart was all of a sudden hammering in your chest. “I never considered the eventuality that…”
“That I liked you?” Luke completed when you didn’t seem to phrase your thought, smile tugging at his lips.
“Shut up, sure. I never considered it,” you continued, looking down at your shoes.
You couldn’t see the way Luke’s brows shot up, raking a nervous hand through his curls, but you noticed the way he couldn’t seem to stop fidgeting, foot tapping quickly on the ground.
“So now you consider it?”
“Well it’s a little more than considering, since it’s staring me right in the face,” you mocked, pointing at his face, and Luke couldn’t suppress a laugh. “But I… feel like I can warm up to the idea.”
“That’s what we’re calling it?” the brunette teased you, nudging your shoulder. “Warming up to the idea.”
You gave him a dirty once over. “Hold your horses, Castellan, I’m not the one who just dropped a bomb on their best friend of a year and a half.” Your gaze suddenly softened, biting the inside of your cheek while your voice came out quieter. “I just… I need some time to sort through everything. I have a lot of thoughts and- and feelings all entangled, I can’t really…”
Your teeth dug further into the inside of your cheek, feeling suddenly guilty, not being able to give him much more than this current uncertainty.
But Luke’s smile had only broadened. His arms shot out, quick to embrace you and pull you in for a tight hug.
“Don’t worry your little brains, I waited a year already, I can wait more,” he said softly, his eyes fluttering close.
You pulled your head back to look up at him with skepticism. “You’re one of the least patient people I kn- mph!”
The boy hadn’t even let you finish your sentence properly, instead pushing your face back right into his orange shirt to shut you up. “You talk too much,” he groaned, but there was no real bite to it.
His hand started to gently caress your hair as he continued. “For you I can wait.”
________
Helloooooo!!
Told you i was back, i swear three weeks of this intership qnd i've done NOTHING--but write ofc.
Also I take reqs if you want toooooooo (saw one already, it'll be out next week babes)
ryland grace who’s chronically offline and has you as his designated brainrot translator. he comes up to you after a day of teaching his middle schoolers, greets you by kissing you sweetly on the cheek, then proceeds to say, “say, babe… what’s sixty-seven?” and you’re like “?? you mean six-seven?” and he enthusiastically snaps and points at you and goes “yes! yes, yes, that. wha… what does it mean? my kids wont stop saying it and giggling. is it like 69?” then his face drops and there’s a slight horror in his eyes. “oh, god. is six-seven a sex thing? like 69? are my kids being inappropriate and i’m totally oblivious to it?”
and you giggle. your shoulders shake up and down as you giggle at your boyfriend’s obliviousness and you shake your head. “nooo, no, baby. it’s not a sex thing. it’s just nonsense. six-seven is nonsense. i think it came from a rap song.”
ryland’s still so confused, but he takes your word for it since you’re more well versed in the kid’s weird vocabulary than he is. the next day he comes home with a giddy smile on his face and raises his arms in victory. “i said six-seven and the entire class laughed!”
you smile. god you’re so fucking in love with him.
